Book of Ruth
by Luckynumber28
Summary: Ruth refuses to forgive what happened to her brother Joe Toye at Bastogne. However, she cannot escape the haunting presence of a German POW while nursing in Zell am See. Nor can she avoid the growing interest of Floyd Talbert.
1. The Book of Ruth

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of this and mean no disrespect to the veterans the miniseries was based on. I was merely inspired by the era and the story as told by HBO.**

**Author's Note: So this is a little different from anything I have yet to try as two of the main characters are OCs. However, this idea got stuck in my head tonight so I decided to play a little with it and see where it went. So far, I am optimistic. There will be multiple chapters but it will be a shorter one from the looks of it. Its also in first person present tense which is different from my other BoB fics, so we'll see where it goes.**

**Just an extra disclaimer here, this is looking to be a tad darker than my more romantic stories like 'An Expensive Solitude'. The relationships are more complicated as well. I am shooting for the reality of the human heart during a chaotic time in history as I can only guess it's like. Nothing is very simple in this one.**

* * *

**Zell am See, Austria  
Summer 1945**

The German soldier's eyes are dead. His body is very much alive. It is slightly broken but not beyond recovery. However, the hollowness in his impenetrable blue stare leaves me cold. He is watching me as I unwrap the wound on his calf.

"What is your name?"

His English is perfect, steeped in an accent that has become familiar though still abrasive to my ears. It jars me to hear him address me with those glazed doll eyes. He can't be much older than me but he looks like he has lived ten lifetimes worth of misery.

"Ruth."

My eyes skip over his long face, sunlight filling the hollows in his cheeks. A heavy eyebrow lifts.

"Ruth Toye."

"For the book of Ruth?" He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, his sharp gaze drifting towards the sunset, "In the Bible."

"For my grandmother."

A ghost of a smile drifts across his mouth as though he used to be young some time ago. The sour smell of the infection in his wound is appalling. I try my best to keep a straight face.

"When did you have this looked at last?"

"I can't remember."

A pair of tattered, tall, leather boots lay beside the cot. I can only imagine it has gone days untended as he was marched for miles towards surrender. Perhaps longer. He doesn't flinch as I press a cloth soaked in iodine to the torn, sea green flesh.

"You're going to need a surgeon to evaluate you." I breathe, "There's gangrene."

The soldier doesn't reply. He taps the ash from his cigarette to the brown grass. I pat the wound, the stinging chemicals and rank aroma of the dead flesh making me dizzy. I sense his eyes graze over me and dare another look at him. His hand drops from his mouth, a cloud of smoke filling the space between us.

I think of my older brother already back home with one less leg. He's alive but it'll never be the same for him. Perhaps this is the self-same enemy soldier who was responsible for the artillery shell that nearly killed Joe. There is always the chance.

My hands tremble at the possibility. As I reach for the bottle of iodine, it slips from my grasp. It tumbles onto the side of the cot and nearly to the ground. The German's hand snatches the bottle from the air. He holds it out to me.

"Thank you." I mumble, taking it from him.

Our fingers brush. The brief touch leaves me nauseous. Accepting even this little help from him feels almost like I'm betraying Joe.

"You're welcome, Ruth." He calmly replies, "Leon."

"Excuse me?"

"Leon Wagner." His mouth caresses the sound of his name as though he is conversing in his mother tongue, "So you will know what to call me next time."

I am rendered speechless. I am only nursing here in the POW hospital for a few days, filling a vacancy. Soon I will be back in the familiar ward in town where my patients talk about state fairs in the fall and baseball scores. The other Germans I have tended today were silent and nameless. I liked them that way. But this man, Leon; I feel haunted by him and I haven't even left yet.

"Ruthie?"

I bolt up from the cot as though I have been found guilty of fraternizing with the enemy. Glancing over at the open tent flap, I see the lanky figure of Floyd Talbert from Indiana. He approaches, his eyes briefly trailing over Leon with disinterest.

"Ruthie, I wanted to see if you'd like a ride back to town?" He asks, running a hand through his hair.

"My shift isn't over for another ten minutes."

"I can wait." He grins.

"Okay." I nod, managing a weak smile, "I'll be out soon."

"Sure thing." He strides away.

I sit down hard on the cot. My eyes sear into his wound as I bind it in clean linen.

"He knows you well." He states, tossing the smoldering stump of his cigarette to the ground, "He called you Ruthie."

I fight to maintain a strained silence but cannot for long.

"He was my brother's friend." I explain, "It's a family nickname."

"_Was_ your brother's friend?"

Leon knits his fingers together and rests them on his middle.

"_Is_ my brother's friend." I shrug, "He is back in the States now."

"Why?"

I bristle and shift my weight on the creaking cot frame.

"He was wounded this winter."

"Bad?"

I give the bandage a swift jerk, looking up in time to see him wince. I am losing my patience.

"He lost a leg." I breathe, my glare boring into him as though he was guilty of the deed.

For all I know; he is.

Leon presses his lips together, "There are no unwounded soldiers, I fear. On any side."

The hate that I have been quietly banking beneath my ribs is threatening to burn out of control. Bitterness is unbecoming of a woman but I cherish mine like the memory of first love. I see nothing in Leon Wagner but an automaton; a machine of the Third Reich. I am surprised he even bleeds.

"I will tell the doctor to see to you." I snap.

Gathering the remaining bandages and capping the bottle of iodine, I move to leave.

"Ruth." He says softly, running a hand over his chin, "Ruth in the Old Testament, she was a stranger in a strange land as well, correct?"

_She also married a Jew_, I want to answer. I want to ask if he has killed any of those lately, remembering the stories Tab has told me about Landsberg. But I don't. Better to stay silent and walk away with my composure intact.

I do walk away, but I am rattled to the bone.

"You alright, Ruthie?" Tab asks as I hoist myself into the passenger seat of the jeep.

He reaches across the distance between us, giving my shoulder a squeeze. The tips of his fingers linger for a moment at the space on my neck bordering my jawline. I pretend not to notice and give him a strained smile.

"Just tired." I reply curtly, "Ready to go home."

"Aren't we all?" He sighs, pulling the jeep around.


	2. Like So Much Meat

**Normandy  
June 1944**

I sit by the open flap in the covered bed of the transport. I am thankful for the chance to catch the fresh morning air. It is worth the heart rending view of a land cut up by invasion.

"Where are you from, Toye?"

I glance across at Florence Wilkins, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed beneath her helmet. Her hand hangs delicately in the air, a cigarette poised between her fingertips. Despite our dour surroundings, she looks fit for a movie screen. Her red lips part as she attempts a grin, though there is no friendliness in it.

"Pennsylvania."

"What does your daddy do?" Her southern drawl lends a softness to her vowels.

"Coal mining."

I meet her dark eyes with mine. We all know Wilkins is as rich as Midas. What she is doing here tending the wolves in the midst of active combat is beyond us. None of us have asked either. I don't see her as being worth the effort of getting to know.

"Thinking of going into the family business after all this?" She asks drolly, tapping the ash from her cigarette out the edge of the bed.

I ignore her, leaning forward on my knees.

"What is that smell?" The shrill cry of a girl in the front goes up.

I peer out in time to glimpse a rotting pile of horse corpses fermenting in the hazy sunlight. Though the mess is a good few feet from the road, the stench is all-pervading. I can almost feel it coming out of my eyes.

"Horses for warfare? In this day in age?" Florence scoffs, "Kraut ingenuity right there, ladies."

My gaze trails towards a group of men, cloths tied around their mouths and noses as they dig into the French farmland. There is an American GI watching them with his Thompson at the ready. I know I am seeing a group of German POWS. They are nothing like the cartoonish buffoons being shown in theaters back home. Their gaze is rank with apathy as they savagely tear into the sod. One of them makes eye contact with me. The soldier is about Joe's age. My attention shudders away to the cloud glazed sky. Joe dropped in on D-Day and I have yet to receive news; bad or good.

"That one took a liking to you, Toye." Florence purrs, flicking the cigarette butt into the open air.

"Don't be stupid, Wilkins." I snap before I can stop myself, "Why don't you fix your lipstick or something."

Florence's round eyes widen at my hostility. However, I am surprised to see a true smile erupt on her heart shaped face. It's a first since meeting her nearly six months earlier.

"Will do, darlin'." She winks, digging a lipstick tube from her coat pocket.

Fighting a grin in return, I lean against the metal railing behind me. I close my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. However, sleep is impossible.

* * *

The first shock of blood is the worst but I acclimate.

I work silently at the quivering mass of muscle and tendon hanging like the distended roots of flowers to the man's thigh bone. Wilkins finds his artery and clamps it. Soon, the individuality of the soldier disappears. Like Hamlet in the graveyard, all I see is so much meat.

After he dies, I step away from the stretcher laid out on a dining table. Florence is gasping as though she's been held underwater. I feel her desperately trying to catch my eye as I stare into the man's grey face. Florence reaches over and shuts his glassy stare.

"Let's have a smoke." I wipe my hands on my apron.

Florence follows without a word out the side door of the Aid Station. She hands me a cigarette and lights it before her own. Taking a moment to let the smoke flood my chest, I study the courtyard slowly filling with soldiers. As I study them, I realize with a jolt that I am looking at paratroopers.

"Bill Guarnere." I let out a smokey chuckle.

"What?" Florence tries to find my line of sight.

My brother's friend removes his helmet, squinting in the pale light as he rubs a grubby hand through his dark, matted hair. He sees me before I can say anything.

"Well," He smirks, approaching with his swaying south Philly strut, "If it ain't Ruthie Toye. Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Pulling me into a side hug, I try to keep from smearing gore on him. After another look at his filthy uniform, I realize it wouldn't have mattered.

"And who is this?" He smirks, giving Florence a wink.

"_This_ is Florence Wilkins." She lifts an eyebrow, "And way above your paygrade, son."

"A feisty broad, huh?" Guarnere's strong jaw loosens as he openly admires her.

"Bill, have you seen Joe?" I interject, intently studying the crowd of men.

"Not since before Carentan but I'm sure he's here somewhere." Guarnere drops a heavy hand on my shoulder, "We got an eye on him, doll. Don't you worry."

A jeep pulls into the yard with a man laid up half conscious on the hatchback. Bill peers over in its direction.

"Holy shit, it's Lip." He grumbles.

"Nurse!" A paratrooper calls out, hopping out the jeep.

Bill races over with Florence and I. The two men take the sides of the stretcher and lift the wounded soldier out of the vehicle.

"What happened?" I ask walking alongside the man.

Florence takes his hand on the other side while I lift his eyelids to study his pupils.

"Explosion threw him back pretty good." The other soldier explains as we carry him into the Station.

"Took some shrapnel to the face." Florence observes as they set him down on an unused cot.

She bites her lower lip and meets my eyes. There is a heavy blood stain near the man's groin, a little too close for comfort from the looks of it. The other paratrooper grips my arm as I slowly stand. I meet his mossy hazel gaze; still wild from the cruelty of heated combat.

"I already checked for him." He explains, immediately knowing our concerns, "Everything is where it should be."

I nod mutely, "I'll go find a medic."

After making sure the Sergeant is well looked after, I return to the cacophony of the cobblestone bailey. I am desperate, hoping I see Joe in the crowd and also hoping I won't in case he's been hit.

"So Guarnere says you're Toye's sister."

With a brief glance over my shoulder, I see the soldier that brought in the Sergeant from my brother's company.

"Is he okay?" I ask as he comes up alongside me.

"Doc says he'll be just fine." He runs the back of his hand over his grimy forehead.

"Good, I'm glad to hear it." I answer, scanning the men once more, "I'm Ruth.

"Floyd Talbert, it's nice to meet you-"

I barely register his self-introduction as the weary figure of my older brother trudges into the yard. Without a second thought, I stride towards him. His doesn't swing his heavy gaze towards me till I am nearly in front of him. Without a word, I clasp my arms around his torso. The events of the day thud into my chest and I find myself fighting tears as he returns the embrace.

"Ruthie," He says, his familiar low growl making the ache in my throat pound, "Ruthie, honey. When did you get here?"

I pull away with a deep sigh, wiping my damp face with the heels of my hands, "This morning."

"Come here." He gives me another squeeze with a kiss to the top of my head.

The tightly wound knots around my heart loosen. I feel like I can breathe again. Taking a step back, I manage a grin. His dark eyes are hemmed with smoky remnants of exhaustion and his mouth, though smiling, is pulled tight. I can't imagine what it's been like for him.

Guarnere and Floyd Talbert come up alongside us, warmly shaking hands with their comrade.

"I had no idea you had a sister, Toye." Floyd comments with a side glance in my direction.

I see his Adam's apple bob as Joe turns his brooding attention on him.

"Yeah," He answers, his head tipping back as he levels him with a glare, "What of it?"

"I just- I didn't know." Talbert replies, rubbing the back of his neck and turning his eyes to the ground.

"Ruthie is a good girl." Joe reaches out and grips the back of my neck affectionately, "She's smart. She's going places. And not with you, Talbert. Catch my drift?"

I clench my jaw with a pointed stare to Joe. Brushing his hand away, I hear a strained call for a nurse.

"I need to go." I state with a nod towards my brother, "I'll try to see you before you head out."

"I'll try to let you know when we do, don't worry." Joe motions in the direction of the Aid Station, "Go save some lives, Ruthie."


	3. Cheating the Devil

**Zell am See, Austria  
Summer 1945**

The surrendered German troops cycle in and out of town like a water wheel. Anonymous men, shredded and shaggy, alongside pristine officers; they march in prideful unison with razor sharp posture. As my ride pulls up to the POW hospital, I have no concerns about seeing Leon Wagner again. There is no doubt he's already on his way to a camp far from here.

"So I'll see you tonight?" Florence winks at me, resting her arm across the back of the seat.

"You bet." I groan wearily, already feeling worn down, "After the day I'm likely to have, I'm going to need some fun."

"I'll keep the hearth fires burnin' for you then, darlin."

I tie my apron around my waist and walk towards the tent in the glare of midday. My gaze drifts down the green to the opposite end of the bivouac. I halt as I recognize him. Leon sits on a wooden crate, talking with a couple other POWs standing in front of him. From the rapidity of their conversation, I know they are speaking German. He passes a lighter to one of the other soldiers.

There is something both foreign and jarringly familiar in his actions. It's as though I am seeing him for the first time on a city sidewalk. As though he isn't the enemy. He notices me and a faint smile brushes across his full lips. Swiftly, I duck into the tent without acknowledging him.

Awareness of his presence bears down on me like a thunderhead. Going through the motions of pulling stitches, administering morphine, and keeping records for the Army surgeon to review later, the casual image of Leon plagues me.

"I'm going to need you to clean a leg wound." The head nurse directs me, motioning down a line of cots, "Get some fresh bandages on him."

I know she's talking about Leon. The blood drains from my face. The woman peeks up at me from her clipboard, her brow furrowing.

"Anytime now, Toye." She rolls her eyes.

Gathering what I need, I steel myself as I stride to the end of the tent. Averting my gaze from his face, I sit down on the edge of the cot and unhook the pins keeping his bandage on. He is silent. I lean over for a piece of gauze. My charcoal black braid tumbles off my shoulder. Propping his heel on my thigh, I unwrap the wound. I glance up and see that his face is hidden in a book. Curiosity can't keep me from studying the worn hardcover for a moment.

"You are reading _Faust_." The words pop matter-of-factly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

The book lowers into his lap. Again, those icy blue eyes are on me like a cold burn against my skin.

"Yes," He answers quietly, "A German tale about cheating the devil."

"I thought it was about making a deal with him."

Leon smiles softly, closing the cover and setting it on the ground.

"You are educated." He states, "Did you attend University?"

"My family couldn't afford it." I cover the milky, weeping gash with the gauze, "I'm assuming yours could."

"Yes."

"Why aren't you an officer?" I ask, glancing up and nodding towards his common soldier's uniform jacket hanging on the back of his cot.

Leon purses his lips, his eyes trail away as he dips his head to the side. His hair is a dark shade of brown, the oiled clumps are thick with dust. I wonder if the POWs are allowed the bathe.

"I wanted the everyman experience among the ranks." He arches a brow as he meets my eyes, "Better material to write about down there."

I upend the bottle of iodine into a cloth.

"Aren't Nazis better at burning books than writing them?" My tone is keen with hostility.

His brow furrows.

"I am not a Nazi." Leon's voice drops an octave.

He holds my eyes till I believe him. Swallowing hard, I look back down at the wound. I keep my hands busy.

"You are so angry for one so young." He comments casually after a stretch of silence.

Wrapping his leg, I snort, "And you are awfully presumptive for a prisoner of war."

"Seems I have nothing left to lose." Again, he cocks his head to the side with that searching stare of his, "Sounds like you don't either."

Pinning the bandage into place, I stand stiffly.

"Thank you, Ruth." He says quietly as I turn to walk away.

I pause but continue towards the front of the tent without responding.


	4. Self-Medicating

Florence tops off my glass with a bottle of schnapps. I tip my head back as I take a strong pull, willing the liquor to invade my senses. I want to be drunk tonight.

"I'm going down the line, trying to find Smith…"

Tab is well on his way to a good buzz. I can hear him on the balcony telling the same story from Normandy again. I lightly step over the threshold towards him and a few of the other guys. Someone puts on another record. I hear Florence argue against the choice and George Luz give his debate in return. She responds with her musical, flirtatious laughter and I know she'll win the battle. Just as I thought, the record changes again.

"And I'm begging the boy, it's me! It's me! Tab!" Floyd is nearly in hysterics, "But he keeps on coming at me with the bayonet."

I have heard this story a hundred times. He is standing by the rail in front of Lester Hashey and one of the new replacements. I think he introduced himself as Paddy. I shake my head with a sigh, drinking again.

Tab glances over at me, his laughter mellowing into a half smile. His eyes soften as he studies me in the dim light.

"Didn't even get a damn Purple Heart out of the ordeal." He concludes, as he always does, before tossing back the last of his drink, "How's Joe these days, Ruthie?"

"Well enough." I reply, crossing towards them.

I brace my back against the balcony rail between Tab and Hashey, swirling my glass. In the sitting room, I see Florence throwing back her head in amusement as Luz attempts to Waltz with her.

"He's in rehabilitation now. My dad says he is in good spirits though."

"As good as they get for Joe, huh?" Tab nudges me with his elbow.

I scoff, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, "You know my brother."

I am glad he's home safe with my parents but I can't help feeling he should be there with us on two healthy legs. The thought sends a shudder through me as I stare down into my half empty glass. The liquor isn't working fast enough. I take another swallow.

I know I have been self-medicating. Before, when there was only the blood and deaths of strangers to contend with, I managed to swallow the pain and soldier on. However, after seeing my big brother shaking violently from shock with a stump where a limb used to be; I haven't been able to handle it by myself anymore. The alcohol is so easy to come by, it's become a nightly ritual. I am far from alone in this so I am justified.

"I remember Joe on nights it got quiet in the Bois Jacque," Hashey's boyish smile breaks wide open, "And we would hear this awful singing-"

"The man couldn't stand the silence." Tab explains to Paddy.

"His favorite was 'I'll Be Seeing You', remember?" Hashey takes a drag from his cigarette.

"And remember the conniption Peacock would go into over it?"

"He _is _a terrible singer." I interject after finishing off my drink, "Floyd, would you get me another?"

"Only if you'll get me one." He winks.

I give an exaggerated groan but I don't argue as he takes my hand and leads me back inside.

"We need more girls at these shindigs." I hear Hashey complain to Paddy before I am out of ear shot.

I walk with Tab into their quarters, past Luz who is dipping back Florence dangerously close to the floor, and into the half lit, empty kitchen. I cup my hand around a cigarette as I light it. Tab is busy pulling a bottle from a cabinet.

"What do you have stashed up there?" I ask, pulling myself up onto the kitchen table and crossing my legs.

My limbs are humming with warmth and I can feel my tongue loosening up. Tab approaches me with the bottle in one hand and the rims of two glasses clutched in the other. He brings the bottle close to his face as he studies the label.

"Something in German."

"I'm shocked."

"So let's see…" He grunts as he pops the cork, it goes off like a shot but neither of us jump, "What we have in this mystery bottle."

He pours us each a drink. Holding it up, he nods towards me.

"So what are we drinking to?" He asks, leaning up against the table beside me, a fist resting on my bare knee.

"How about to Kokomo, Indiana?" I shrug with a grin.

His chin juts out as he purses his lips with a nod, "Alright, I could do that. To Kokomo."

"To Kokomo." I respond and our glasses clink.

I hear a thud in the other room.

"George Luz!" Florence shrieks.

I lean back to see her being helped up from the floor. Apparently Luz's dancing abilities are not as spot on as his comedic timing. Tab snorts and takes a drink. I do the same, our eyes not leaving each other as we both finish off the glasses. By now, I am feeling the heat of the liquor reach my brain.

I hold out my glass. Tab eyes it cautiously for a moment before turning his mossy amber gaze on me once more.

"Are you sure?" He crooks an eyebrow, "How about you slow it down a bit, Ruth."

"I want to make another toast." I insist fervently, my eyes widening.

With a sigh, Tab concedes and fills both of our glasses.

"To the Book of Ruth." I lift my glass and tap it softly against his, "To being a stranger in a strange land."

"Whatever that means." Tab closes his eyes and tips his head back as he drinks.

I pause. The tacky rim sticks to my lower lip. I think of Leon Wagner with his eyes and his books and his riddles. I think of the way he says his own name. I drink swiftly and deeply.

Tab's fist on my knee relaxes and he gently grips my thigh. I set the empty glass on the table next to me. After looking at me for a moment, something shifts behind his eyes.

"I should be getting you home." He states with a sharp step back.

I nod, knowing he is right. Florence assures me that George will see her safely returned to our quarters in a little bit. I am certain that he will be more than happy to play escort.

There is a full moon rising past the dark peaks that hem Lake Zell. Somewhere in the night, a car horn blares followed by a shrill whistle. Other than that, it's a quiet walk home. Tab takes my hand, entwining our fingers. I lean into his arm, enjoying the feeling of being wanted. It's as intoxicating as liquor and numbs the ache in my chest.

I stumble to a stop a few doors down from where Florence and I are staying with one other nurse. I press my hands against his chest and grasp the open sides of his jacket. Tab places his hands on my elbows.

"Ruthie, you need to get home and to bed." He coaxes, "I knew you shouldn't have had that last drink."

"What do you mean you _knew_ I shouldn't have," I accuse, tapping my finger on his breastbone, "Like you poured me that glass anyway against your better judgement? Maybe you did it because you _knew _this would happen."

I grasp the back of his neck and kiss his partially open mouth. For a moment, he gives in and deepens the kiss. However, I know neither of us want this to happen again. It took our friendship long enough to recover after the first time.

"Ruth," He breaks away, grabbing my hand at his nape and bringing it forward, "Ruth, you should get home."

I step back, "I know you're right."

We keep eye contact. Tab wets his lips and shifts restlessly.

"Christ, Ruthie." He breathes as he rushes forward, losing his hands in my dark hair and kissing me soundly.

I love the smell of the Old Spice he uses after he shaves and the sharp intake of breath through his nose. I love his hands at the small of my back and how his shoulders mold smoothly under my palms. But I don't know how I feel about Floyd Talbert himself. The guilt of this awareness is overwhelming.

I can self-medicate with alcohol but I will not with him. It wouldn't be fair.

I tear myself away. His eyes are heavy lidded and breathing rapid as his hands remain suspended for a moment.

"Goodnight, Tab." I whisper and take myself the rest of the way home.


	5. Roots of Hatred

**Bastogne  
Winter, 1944**

Florence Wilkins possesses a strange beauty.

I thought it before I knew her arrogance was merely a reaction to the rumors concerning her family's money. Before Normandy when her nails were manicured and curls pinned back in a sophisticated chignon.

Some of the girls consider her features too strong to be lovely. Yet there is a magnetism to her countenance; in her dimpled chin and keenly curved jawline. Her rare smile occupies nearly half of her face. The viewer can't help but be fascinated, even if she is subtly stripping you of your dignity with her acidic wit.

The men love to look at her. Honestly, they look at all of us. In this frozen hell, I can only imagine how surreal we must seem even in all our woolen layers. They look at me with my aquiline nose and long face. But they _study_ Florence. Unwashed hair tight in a braid and eyes red rimmed from exhaustion or tears; she remains glaringly captivating.

The hot water sloshes over the lip of the bowl as I come to a sudden stop.

I see the Sergeant that Floyd Talbert brought to the Aid Station back in Normandy. I have met Carwood Lipton, called Lip by his men, since his recovery. I like him. His face is gentle, despite the scar on his cheek from the shrapnel, with a voice as tepid as bathwater. The men heed him without question.

He stands at the immediate entrance to the hospital talking politely with Florence. Lip is clutching his helmet too close to his body. Florence grasps the blankets in her arms like she's holding on for dear life. Their conversation fades but they don't leave, rather stand there drinking each other in like wine.

The glint of gold on his bare left hand only confirms what I already know. Sergeant Lipton is married. Florence is engaged. I hear a couple other nurses' whisper nearby as they notice the obvious attraction between them.

I barrel forward, water splashing to the ground.

"Sergeant Lipton." My smile is stiff, "Are you here to see Joe?"

He jumps. His pallid skin tints a light shade of rose. He clears his throat.

"Ruth." He nods to me, "I have some mail for him and wanted to see how he was doing."

"He's at the cot in the far left corner." I gesture with my head towards the back, "He could use some company."

My voice sounds a mite too firm but I'm not concerned. I dread the thought of something developing that would give substance to those whispers. I stand partially in front of Florence as though I'm shielding her from the mild tempered Sergeant. He gives a quick, tight lipped smile.

"Good to see you, Ruth." His eyes skirt behind me, "Florence."

After he leaves, I grasp her by the arm. I pull her outside into a snow fall as thick as fog.

"You need to be careful."

Her eyes widen as she comprehends my meaning.

"I don't know what you are talking about." She scoffs incredulously.

"Yes. You do." I reply, "What about Tom?"

"There is nothing going on between me and Car-" Her gaze drops to the ground, "Sergeant Lipton was only asking how things have been at the hospital."

"Florence, he's married."

"I know!" She snaps in a harsh whisper, glancing around to make sure no one can hear us, "Please, you're not my mother. Don't tell me-"

"What happens if someone starts gossiping?"

"You know I don't care what they think. It'd be lies anyway."

"But you _do _care what Sergeant Lipton's men think of him?" I demand.

Her mouth folds into a tight line.

"Yes."

"Then do both yourself and him a favor." My voice softens, "Stay away from the man."

Florence shifts the bundles in her arms with a sniff, her eyes cutting past my face.

"You know I would never-"

"Of course." I interject before she can say it.

"Ruth, I can't- I can't help how I feel." She chokes, "But I can help my actions."

"So you'll take my advice?"

She meets my eyes, "Yes."

"Good." I nod with a weak smile, "Now give me those blankets and go take a break. You could use one."

Towards noon, Joe finds me packing away clean bandages. A few days earlier, he was brought in having caught a piece of shrapnel in his wrist. It's not the first time he's been hurt. I have heard tales about him barely escaping injury in the past. However, actually witnessing a mishap is disturbing. I don't say anything but the event has shaken me to the core.

He wears a sling but he's bundled up in his gear. My hands hover midair, gauze hanging from my fingers.

"Why are you dressed like that?" I ask evenly, tipping back my head.

His eyes don't leave my face.

"I'm going back to the line."

"Why?" I snap.

"Ruthie, come on now." He scowls, "Do you really think I'd be able to stand it here much longer?"

"Did Lip tell you something? Did he make you feel guilty-"

"Of course he didn't. You know that's stupid." He runs his free hand over his face, "Ruthie, I can't leave the boys on their own like that."

I perch a fist on my hip with a scoff, "And who do you think you are? General Patton?"

"Shit. I knew you wouldn't understand."

"Damn right I don't." The curse word from me grabs his attention, "You're the one that's stupid. You aren't even healed up yet."

"I'm fine."

"Like hell you are."

"Stop swearing."

"Only when you do."

Joe swallows a grin. It only infuriates me. I fiercely throw the bandages into the container, breathing hard through my nose. Passing a shaking hand over my hair, I grip the sides of the box.

"Do whatever you want. I don't give a shit."

Nauseated, I stride away without another look.

I know it's his duty as much as mine is patching up soldiers. However I have seen too many torn bodies. Too much blood pumping from ripped arteries, empty cavities where organs used to be, burns beyond the mending. The current is dragging me down.

I stop in the yard. I see German POWs herded past the field hospital in their blinding white uniforms. Their faces blur, their strange tongues drone into the maddening thrum of war drums. All I see are vicious animals doing their best to claw the world to pieces. Desperate predators without names. Death mongers and bullies.

I never knew; I have never felt true hatred in my life before now. It leaves me wilted, vicious as adrenaline in my veins. I am not an aggressive person so I will never act on it. It rots in me like those dead horses in the summer sun.

* * *

"Why the long face, sweetheart?" The teenager winks at me with a green tinged, black eye.

The red head with a split lip and bad shrapnel wound to the torso grins as I gingerly sit him up on his cot. He'll live but he's being evacuated as soon as possible. There is a transport that evening and he'll be on it.

"You're the prettiest thing I've seen since Paris."

"I'm sure." I meet his eyes with a wry grin and lift his arm. He winces with a sharp intake of breath, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, of course." He groans with a pained smile, "You're just breaking my heart with that frown of yours."

I shake my head, unwrapping the bandage that cuts up around his ribs.

"I'm like the tenth fella' that's used that line on you today, aren't I?"

"More like the twentieth."

"Damn." His hisses through his teeth as I carefully uncover his swollen stitches, "I thought I was pretty slick there for a moment."

I give a short laugh as I work. The humor is a welcome reprieve. A patient I tended that morning with the surgeon died of his wounds. He'd lost both legs. I'm certain artillery shells were conceived in hell.

"So where are you from?" He asks.

I open my mouth to answer but see Florence and another nurse stride up to the cot. Their faces are drawn and pale. My heart drops to my stomach. I stand. The other girl wordlessly takes over with the soldier.

"Helen has got you covered here, darlin'." Florence lays a trembling hand on my wrist.

My heart is thudding in my ears. Silently, we walk outside. Florence pauses to face me. She grasps both of my hands.

"Tell me quick." I gasp, "How did it happen? How did he die?"

"Joe isn't dead." Florence lays a cold palm to my burning face, "He's alive. But you need to come with me."

"He's hurt?"

Florence doesn't answer but holds my hand as we walk towards the main hospital tent. We approach a screened corner. I see Floyd Talbert and the medic from their company. I think his name was Roe.

"He's stable. So is Guarnere." He states grimly.

Stable. He's stable. My brain is grasping at straws. Florence doesn't respond but pulls back the screen. My knees lock as I try to understand what I am witnessing.

"Ruthie?"

Joe is on a cot, shaking so hard that it's swaying with his weight. His face is chalky, dark eyes like coal pits. They take over half his face. His teeth chatter as he tries to smoke a cigarette. I cock my head to the side. My gaze lands where his leg used to be located. The surgeon is attempting to pack in a bloody hank of meat at his knee. Like a turkey neck at Christmas that was hacked by an unsteady hand.

The bile rises in my throat but I have enough presence of mind to swallow it down.

"Joe." I nod, my voice strangely calm.

Florence has an arm wrapped around my lower back to keep my on my feet.

"What's a guy have to do to die around here anyway, Doc?" He chokes out, a cigarette trembling on the edge of his lips.

Tab enters and takes the smoke for him, tapping the ash from it before putting it back into his mouth.

"Don't say that." I breathe.

"Bill is doing just fine." Tab tells him, gripping his shoulder.

"A couple of tickets home for us, huh?" Joe stutters, "You hear that, Ruthie? I'll give mom and pop your regards."

I shudder, unable to crack a smile though I know I should. Before I can respond, they are lifting him onto a stretcher.

"We are getting them out now. They can't wait for the transport tonight." I hear the surgeon tell another nurse.

Numbly, I reach out and grasp Joe's hand. It's deadly cold. The world is a smudge of grey, bone white and red in the cross on the ambulance. He is loaded into the back of the vehicle.

"Don't worry, Ruthie. I'll be seeing you." He calls as they shut the back doors.

The surgeon hits the window with a bloodied hand and the ambulance drives away into the snow storm. I am standing alone. A pair of large hands run down the tops of my arms. I turn into Floyd Talbert's chest and he enfolds his body around mine.

I don't cry. I take in the cold like a tonic. I will myself into ice. I want to dissolve into snow.

I want to feel nothing.


	6. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

**Mngirl: You are lovely. I am so glad that I was able to portray Ruth's initial development well enough! I wanted to make sure the reader saw how she changes through the story and you made me feel like I am getting there (: I hope this chapter is a fun one, its more lighthearted.**

**MASHlover23: Thank you, sweetheart! I am thrilled that you enjoy my stuff, I have so much fun writing it. I hope you enjoy this next part!**

* * *

**Zell am See  
****Summer 1945**

"Mercy, Frank. How did you manage this one?"

He grins. The split in his lower lip widens, blood mixing with water and trailing down his chin. I dip the bottle of antiseptic into a piece of gauze.

"I missed the jump by this much." He lifts a hand, showing the distance between his thumb and forefinger.

He throws back his heavy, jet black hair, water droplets scattering to the sunlit air. He leans his face towards my hand. I hold the cloth to his mouth.

"_Ouch_." His nose crunches up.

"Well _ouch_ wouldn't be a problem if you'd take it easy on the acrobatics."

Being the shortest but sturdiest built of the boys of Easy Company, Frank Perconte has become quite adept at launching himself into Lake Zell. His flips are impressive and usually he lands them. Just not this time.

"Wow, Perco. That was something else." I hear Tab behind me.

He rests an elbow on my shoulder as though nothing happened between us the other night. Part of me is more than willing to play along.

"Tab, get off me." I swat him away playfully, "You're soaked."

I hand the gauze to Frank. His dark eyes drift over to the lake side. Turning, I notice a couple of the DP girls they invited meandering down to the water's edge. He stands and sprints towards them without another word.

"Hey! Hey ladies, watch this!" He hollers, racing down the stone jetty and doing a front flip into the lake.

I stand, brushing the sand from my nurse's uniform. I am due down at the POW camp in a half hour. My stomach has been in knots all morning. I'm not sure if I am hoping to see Leon or not. I stir, remembering Tab's presence.

He has his hands perched on his hips, watching Frank take another flying leap. Water slowly dries on his bare chest in the warm, midday sun. I try not to stare, straightening the wrinkles in my uniform. As I do, the book falls from my pocket to Tab's feet. He leans over and retrieves it from the dirt, leafing his wrinkled finger tips over the pages.

"_A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_?" He flips his damp hair to the side, "I thought you'd already read this twice?"

I reach out to snatch it but he pulls it back, holding it away with a smirk. I fight a grin and try again.

"Why do you want it so bad if you already know what happens?" He lifts it above his head.

"Tab, come on. Don't be- don't be annoying." I grunt as I make another grab for it, "It's for a friend!"

The word _friend_ pops out of my mouth before I can think about it. My stomach twists. How can an enemy become a friend after a few conversations and a shared interest in books? I bury the thought. Tab's brow furrows in interest at my statement, his hand with the text dropping lower.

"What friend?" He asks with a half chuckle.

Florence happens by and seizes it before I can. She hands the book to me. Crossing her arms over her chest, she lowers her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose with the tip of her forefinger. She blows a bubble with her gum, eyeing Tab with disdain.

"Now what's all this with you bullying dear Ruthie here?" She demands drily.

Tab snorts, unfazed by Florence's displays of derision by this point in the game.

"Why don't you ask _dear Ruthie_ who she is giving the book to?" He smirks.

"You're lending it out again? I thought I was going to get a chance to read it this time?" Florence turns to me, straightening the messy bow on my apron strings.

"You hate to read. It'll sit by your bed collecting dust for weeks." I reply with a knowing grin.

Florence shrugs and winks at me.

I hear a jeep horn. I grimace as I remember who was kind enough to offer me a ride to the POW bivouac. Florence pushes her glasses up to her face once she recognizes Carwood Lipton at the wheel. Her face pales. Brushing a wave of blonde hair from her square forehead, she pats me on the shoulder.

"See you tonight, darlin'." She flounces down to the lake.

I look back at Tab. He is pulling at his lower lip as he studies me. Even with a look of befuddled consternation on his honest face, he is a living archetype; the all-American boy. Floyd Talbert is everything familiar and safe to me. He should have a baseball bat slung across his shoulders while whistling Yankee Doodle. I stomp the impulse to compare him to Leon.

"So I'll see you later, kid?" He chuckles, nudging my shoulder with his knuckles like I was a school buddy and not the girl he kissed in the moonlight.

"Sure thing, Tab." I race towards Lipton on the road.

After a moment of driving in comfortable silence, Lip shifts the gears and quips a quick glance in my direction.

"A lot of people down by the lake today."

"It's beautiful out." I agree, tucking the book into my pocket.

"Sure is." He runs a hand over his mouth, "I didn't know Florence Wilkins liked to swim."

I half expected him to ask after her.

"She's more the sunning type." I reply with a casual chuckle, "Though George Luz did throw her in the other day."

"Did he?"

"She was madder than a cat being baptized." I laugh, adopting one of Florence's favorite colloquialisms.

Lipton gives his gentle chuckle, both hands gripping the wheel.

"I think Luz is sweet on her." I peer out to the mountains. Carwood's posture stiffens.

"Doesn't she have a fiancé?"

"_Had _a fiancé." I answer, "She sent him a Dear John letter after Haguenau."

I glance over to see Lip's brow furrow, twisting his wedding ring with his thumb. Carwood drops me off at the bivouac with a polite goodbye. I brush off the strained conversation.

Going through the motions of my day, I casually make my way down the row of cots towards Leon's. I find it empty. A troubling tick of disappointment drips into my mind. However, I notice the copy of _Faust_ on the grass beside the canvas wall. His uniform jacket is tucked almost out of sight.

I frown at the relief that floods my chest.

The gold of late afternoon saturates the valley. The man on the stretcher is loaded into the ambulance. I hand the full bottle of plasma to the medic as he hops into the back of the vehicle. They drive away. Shielding my eyes from the glare, I peer towards the hospital.

Leon is standing in a group of three by a tent pole. He leans against it almost lazily with one hand in his pocket. The first couple buttons on his shirt are undone. He perches the sole of a tall boot against the canvas behind him. The voice of one of the other young men rises in gaiety and I see him give a real laugh for the first time. As quickly as it came upon him, the light fades from his face. His expression becomes as fallow as a field in November. Until he notices me.

The corner of his mouth twitches upwards as he flicks his cigarette to the ground. Instead of ignoring him this time, I am drawn forward. He keeps his steady ice blue gaze on me as I approach.

"Hello Ruth."

"Hello." I nod, my eyes drop.

The other two men shift, unsure of my presence. Leon shoots out what is certainly a brief explanation in German. I hook my hands behind my back and glance towards them as their faces soften in understanding. One of them is so young, I can't imagine him to be any more than sixteen years old. He still has peach fuzz on his rounded cheeks. The other is strange looking. His muddy brown eyes are so large, they seem like they might fall right out of his face. He smiles at me. I return the favor and it feels natural. I am having difficulty reminding myself that these are the same kind of men I saw burying horses in Normandy and breaking the line at Bastogne over Christmas. The young one holds out a pack of cigarettes to me, lifting his downy eyebrows. I shake my head politely.

They bid farewell to Leon and saunter away. I study their backs for a moment.

"The taller one with dark hair." Leon gestures with a free hand in their direction, "He was on the Eastern front in '42."

"There was something-"

"His eyelids." Leon interrupts with calm precision, waving a hand in front of his face, "They were frozen off."

My stomach lurches as I visibly shudder, "How can-"

"The cold burns them off like rice paper." Leon takes out another cigarette and lights it.

"What is his name?"

My question surprises us both. Leon pockets his lighter, studying me with narrowed eyes as he takes a slow drag.

"Johann Klein." He wets his lower lip, "Farmer's son."

"And what does your father do?"

The corner of Leon's full mouth lifts, smoke drifting from it, "He is in banking."

"Is that where your family's money comes from?"

"When did I say my family had money?"

"You didn't. I guessed."

Looking away, his chin juts out, "No, that's mostly from my mother's side. She is British."

This revelation is both shocking and immediately understandable to me. His English, though heavily accented, flows off his tongue too naturally as though he's been speaking it from birth. Leon Wagner is fleshing out, like the bare lines of a sketch as they gain color under the hand of an artist. It's disturbing to view one of _them _this way. After believing the lot of the German army was a mindless collective, cells in the body of the Third Reich, he is gently molding my perspective. I can feel us becoming friends.

For a moment, I want to run away. Instead I reach for the book in my pocket.

"I have something for you." I almost whisper, taking out the dog eared copy and holding it out awkwardly.

He glances at me and reaches for it. Silently, he reads the cover.

"I wasn't sure-" I stutter, rubbing the back of my neck, "You see, I always have something new to read but I didn't know what else you had- I just thought-"

"_A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_." Leon peers back up at me, "Thank you, Ruth."

"You're welcome." I sigh.

I study my palms. I notice that my thumbnail has left a crescent indent in the heel of my hand.

"Brooklyn, that's in New York City, correct?"

"Yes."

"Is that where you are from?"

"No, my family is from Pennsylvania." I find myself smiling.

Leon smiles in return with an acknowledging hum in his throat, "And what does your father do?"

"He's a coal miner."

"A coal miner's daughter who loves to read." He comments, leafing his nimble fingers through the pages as Tab had done earlier.

"What of it?" I answer rigidly.

"Nothing." He shrugs, tucking the book under his arm, "Just who you are, Ruth Toye."

There is the same brief shift behind his eyes that I had spied in Floyd Talbert's hazel gaze the previous night. They flicker over me in what feels like admiration. This is too close for comfort.

"Toye!" The shrill bark of the head nurse shatters my thoughts, "You are needed in here!"

Without another word, I march towards her glowering red face peeking through the flaps of the tent. I have to pocket my hands to keep them from trembling.


	7. All Quiet on the Western Front

**Author's Note:**

**Aubrey1: Oh my goodness, you are too much. Thank you for your sweet words. I am glad you enjoy the characters. I really love creating them. Its my favorite part of writing. I find the more real they are; the better the story.**

**Maya: Thank you! I know this one isn't anything like "An Expensive Solitude" but I'm glad you like it just the same!**

**mngirl: I hate to say it but this chapter is kind of a downer... but I'm glad you liked the scene between Tab and Ruth with the book. I am obsessed with writing the dynamic between Leon and Ruth. Leon is the first BoB OC I have ever written that I am kind of in love with... not gonna lie...**

* * *

**Haguenau  
February 1945**

I stop cold in the hallway of the abandoned home. Amongst the sepia tinted photos of strangers hanging crooked against the faded wallpaper, there is a mirror. I haven't looked at myself in weeks. I hesitate before edging forward. My face comes into view in the foggy glass.

The angles of my chin and cheek bones have always been prominent but they have sharpened in the past months. They hungrily jut out beneath my skin like razors. My eyes are too large for my face, inky as the shadow of the new moon. They look like Joe's the last time I saw him.

While growing up, we were constantly mistaken for twins. So similar in appearance and temperament, our understanding of each other was intuitive. Our arguments have always been rare. He's been my best friend since I was born. Seeing him so grievously hurt was like taking a bullet. I have been bleeding inwardly ever since and it shows.

I shun the image, hoisting the box of paperwork into the crooks of my elbows. Florence is opening the front door as I reach it.

"It's snowing."

"What else is new?"

We walk together towards the jeep heading back to Division. Our little field hospital is far enough away from the heart of the town that the chances of us getting hit by snipers or shells are slim. However, it's remains dangerous to be out in midday.

"It's strange to think we are living in the same town as _them."_

I don't need to ask whom Florence references. I peer towards the sloshing winter river, pieces of snow and ice clinging to the emaciated banks. I try not to think about the German soldiers, but it's difficult. My mother told me when I was a teenager that an unforgiving heart was the worst possible cancer to contract. But I take my poison like a heavy draught. I set the box into the backseat of the jeep with a grunt and brush my hands off on my trench coat.

"It's kind of like living in a town with two high schools during football season." Florence comments dryly, offering me a cigarette.

"Or like sleeping in the same bed as a murderer." I take one and perch it on my lower lip.

"We'd be the murderers too, you know."

"It's different." I snap, blowing out a cloud of smoke with some force, "They are a different breed of killer."

I sense Florence's concerned gaze wash over my face. I keep my eyes on the dove grey horizon.

"You know," She says softly, "If the time and place had been different, you might have had something in common with some of them. You might have even been friends."

"Yeah well. That's not the case, is it?" I scoff, stomping out my half smoked cigarette, "I'm cold."

I turn to leave. I have made it only a few feet when I am struck hard in the shoulder by a snowball. I stare back at Florence in shock. She smirks, holding her cigarette in one hand and another snowball in the other. She hammers it in my direction and it thuds into my chest. That one was more ice than the fresh powder falling around us.

Without thinking, I burst forward and tackle her into a snowbank. She screeches as I grind a handful of snow into her face with gusto. The next thing I know I am flat on my back and laughing. My body sinks into the soft cold around me. I can't remember the last time I laughed.

"Ruthie," Florence flops down, the crowns of our heads touching, "I'm scared for you."

"What do you mean?" I ask, catching my breath and sniffing.

"I don't want you to forget who you are."

"I hate to break it to you but that feels like it's already happened." I confess with a mirthless chuckle, "I don't know who Ruth Toye is anymore."

Her hand thuds into my stomach, clutching something in her gloved fingers. I pick it up and hold it over my face.

"_A Tree Grows in Brooklyn._" I read quietly, "Where did you get this?"

"I traded a couple packs of Lucky Strikes and a Hershey bar for it from one of the boys in Item." She explains, "I thought you could use a reminder."

"A reminder of what?"

"Of the girl I met in England. I still remember the first time I saw you. You were sitting on a bench in Victoria Station. Your hair was in two braids like a country girl and you were engrossed in this leather-bound copy of-"

"_All Quiet on the Western Front_." I finish her statement, my heart loosening at the memory.

"Where did that book go anyway?"

"I have no idea. I suppose it went missing along the way." I feel a sharp pang of remorse over its loss, "My father gave it to me before I left. It's about German soldiers during the Great War. I still don't know why he choose that one for me."

"Perhaps because he wanted to remind you that some enemies can be human too."

Her statement makes my skin crawl.

"Did you know it was one of the books the Nazis called degenerate? They burned copies publicly." I say after a downy pause, accented by the chilled drift of wind, "If Hitler hates it, I suppose it couldn't have been all that bad."

"Did you like it?"

"I don't know. I can't remember." I sit up and glance over at Florence, "You know, I'm proud of you."

Florence throws a cloud of snow into my face, "Shut up."

"I'm serious!" I laugh, brushing the icy wetness from my eyelashes.

"What on earth are you talking about?" She asks, sitting up and perching her arms on her knees.

"About everything with Lipton." My voice fades a little at his name.

"Is that all?" She snorts though there is a twinge to her cheek, "Bravo to me for not becoming _the other woman_."

I manage a laugh for her sake, glancing down at the book cover, "I know how you felt and I can't imagine it's been easy-"

"Ruthie, come on." Florence stands up and offers me a hand, "Let's not hash that out again, please."

I concede. We walk back towards the house sharing the last of her cigarettes.

It's after midnight. Florence and I carry boxes of medical supplies to the aid stations closer to the river. There is a full moon. We stick to the jagged shadows of decrepit buildings and brick walls lined with the curled spines of barbed wire. We find Doc Roe of Easy Company holed up in a dim basement near where CP is located.

I like Gene Roe. He is subtle and dark as the river water outside. I am a good nurse; I keep my head and I do my best whatever the circumstance. But I have no bedside manner. I treat wounds like a butcher treats a slab of beef. Gene sees the man. He listens to their ragged breaths and holds their hands. I don't have that capacity and I doubt I ever will.

The three of us sit around a rusted stove, clutching tin cups of coffee in our gloved hands. I find myself admitting this fear to him. Gene's eyes give a gravity to the unease in my heart.

"Ruth, it's not that you don't care." He explains, the words riding the easy dip and slope of his Cajun accent, "I believe you care too much. Detaching is how you survive."

Someday, I know I'm going to have to stop surviving and start living. I sip my coffee and burn the roof of my mouth.

"That's what I keep on telling her, Gene." Florence kicks me from across the way, "But maybe she'll listen to you."

Florence doesn't need a bedside manner. Most men are too busy looking at her to notice whether she's being sweet or spitting in their eye.

We all burst from our seats as the door bangs open. I have only met Johnny Martin a handful of times but I have never seen him in such a state.

"We need a medic."

From the look on his face, we don't need to know anymore. The three of us follow him through the war ravaged city to another house close to the river. I hear the chaos before I see it.

"_Where the fuck is the medic_?" A man's holler resonates as we enter the hell hole.

Amidst the rigidly panicked forms of the other soldiers, black muzzles of guns swinging in the air and cries of men that sound more like those of lost children, I see the convulsing form of a young paratrooper. My brain cuts out the rest of the scene like fat from meat. Half his face is swollen and stained with blood, powdered by dust, so it might be blunt trauma from an explosion. However, there are large gashes in his skull where shrapnel could have slipped in like a knife in the dark.

Gasping, gurgling, pink bubbles on the corner of his mouth. The boy they call Jackson whimpers. Gene studies his one good eye with a flame held to his glassy gaze. His pupil is a black hole, hungrily sucking in the light.

"Alright we got to get him out of here." Gene directs urgently.

Nearly every man present reaches out to help carry the small statured private. Their faces burn with fear. The stretcher isn't even to the door. The young man's urgent pleas are too familiar. He doesn't want to die. Florence trembles next to me and I know she is crying.

They set him down as the room vibrates with artillery explosions. The sounds of the dying boy drown out the violence outside. Gasping, gurgling. Roe is begging him to hang on. He convulses. Gasps. His skinny, boyish frame relaxes with death.

After a few moments of silence interrupted only by gunfire, they cover his body with a blanket.

I stand alone outside in the dark. The shells have ceased and there are only snipers to fear. But I don't care. I light a cigarette, daring them. Daring the bastards. There is the strangled cry of a man on the other side of the river. From the snippets of conversation I have gathered inside, I guess it's the prisoner they left for dead. Except he's still alive.

I blow smoke in his direction and breathe in the cold. I feel nothing. I think about _All Quiet on the Western Front_. I think about the girl at Victoria Station with her dark hair in braids. She's as strange to me now as the dying German gasping alone on the frozen riverbank.

There is a heavy hand on my lower back and I ease into its solidity.

"Put that out." Tab grabs the cigarette with a bare hand and stomps it into the snow, "What the hell are you thinking-"

I reach up and rest my hand on the side of his face. Though I can't see his expression, I can sense his shock as I kiss him. He responds almost violently, roughly grabbing me. We both taste like tobacco and salt. Numbly, I realize he is as desperate as I am for something tangible.

"Ruthie?" Florence's voice cracks as she whispers softly.

She doesn't see us. I tear away and walk in the direction of her voice, staying out of the moonlight. I wipe my mouth. My heart is as hungry as ever, despite my futile attempt to feed its need on this winter's night.


	8. Polaris

**Zell am See  
Summer 1945**

_Ruth Toye is a dark flame. She is cagey as a starving, feral cat too scared to approach a saucer of milk. With lithe wrists like branches in winter, thin fingers and watchful eyes. A latent spark of fear, sometimes shifting to disgust, burns behind them as she studies him. Eyes that disturb Leon Wagner's sleep at night, laying on his back and blowing smoke to the canvas ceiling. _

_Leon fears Ruth will haunt him all the way home, if he ever makes it back. She will return to Pennsylvania. The thought of that foreign place makes her smile; a rare and rewarding sight. He will fade away for her until he is merely a strange memory. A story to tell her grandchildren of her brief encounter with a surrendered enemy soldier._

_Leon fears Ruth will remain to him as glaring as Polaris. His constant northern star in a frenzied, revolving sky. _

_Leon fears Ruth as she fears him. But for entirely different reasons. H__e knows she is right about him._

* * *

The rain is heavy the next morning. Though the storm is brief, it leaves the ground supple with mud and trampled grass. My shoes sink in the mire as I emerge into the glistening air. The sun breaks free of the cloud cover. I dump out the pan of dirty water.

"Hello Ruth."

Leon is standing at the tent flap nearest his cot, a yellowed piece of paper trembling with the breeze in his fingers. Absently, I muse that his hands look fit for playing piano or the violin. I find it difficult to imagine them shooting a rifle. He folds the paper and tucks it into his pocket.

"Did you receive a letter?" I quip, bringing my thoughts to the present.

He smirks, his brow wrinkling in amusement, "I am a POW, Ruth. Do you think I would?"

My face flares up. I nod briskly and turn to leave.

"Wait, I'm sorry." He stammers, "I was joking."

I glance over my shoulder, holding the tin pan to the breast of my apron. Leon shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. It's the first time I've seen him look unsure around me.

"Bad joke, eh?"

"Yes." I lift an eyebrow.

"However, you are correct. It is a letter."

I edge forward, "From whom?"

"My brother."

"Where is he now?"

His sharp eyes cut into the mud, "Not here."

I swallow this new piece of the puzzle. Digging into my pocket, I tug out a new pack of cigarettes. They are Lucky Strikes; the coveted brand among the troops. I hold it out to him from where I stand an arm's length away. Leon glances over at me. He takes the offering with a nod. Opening it, he perches a cigarette in his mouth and extends the open pack to me.

"I have more." I reply, "Keep it."

"Then have one with me."

My hand hesitates midair before retrieving one. Putting it in my mouth, I don't have a chance to react as he steps towards me. He flicks a lighter and cups his hand around the flame. He holds it towards the end of my cigarette. My scalp pricks as his close proximity blisters into me. I breathe in the heat of the glowing tobacco and he draws back.

"Is he older or younger?" The smoke catches the wind.

"Older." Leon lights his own and holds it lightly between his fingers by his side, "I have one more below me."

"You are the middle son."

"Yes."

"What are their names?"

"Paul, the older. Wilhelm is the younger." He waves his hand with the smoke drifting from his fingers as he folds the packet closed, "Paul was in Holland when he was killed in action."

My heart drops to my stomach. The casualness of his tone chills me. I stare at him. He ignores me and puts the packet in his pocket with the letter.

"I'm-"

"I know. I know, Ruth Toye." He cuts me off, his mouth twitching down, "I'm sorry too."

His words pierce through my reserve. I clutch the pan to me, unsure of how to continue the conversation. I have seen too much of death to know how to discuss it sensitively.

"He was a lieutenant." He continues for me, sensing my apprehension, "Very brave."

A brave enemy. It's strange to think of them in terms that feel reserved only for our boys.

"I'm sure he was." I answer.

His head tips forward as he digs the toe of his boot into the ground. Dark brown hair falls forward onto his forehead and again I wonder if he has had a chance to bathe recently. My eyes trail towards the front of the tent. I notice the head nurse who is particularly brutal leaving as her shift ends. The other one coming in is more lenient with us girls. Perhaps she won't notice.

"Wait here." I flick away the cigarette and brush past him into the hospital.

I emerge a few moments later with a bar of soap, a chipped glass bowl and ragged square of a towel.

"Follow me." I direct without a look, marching along the side of the tent.

I stop at an indented corner of the field hospital that faces the mountain range. I'm not sure if I will get in trouble for this but I don't really care. I don't know how else to react to what I have just learned from Leon. There is a barrel of collected rainwater that will have to do.

"Sit." I direct, pointing to a discarded wooden crate.

Leon obeys. I can feel him studying me with interest as I come along his side. I spread the towel over the masculine angles of his neat shoulders. I peer down, his mouth parting in a silent question.

"Lean your head forward." I snap, "You're filthy."

Without mercy, I dump the bowl full of rainwater over his head. He hisses through his teeth as it races cold down his bare neck. I see the skin there erupt in gooseflesh. The next thing I know, a bark of laughter bursts from him. I can't help but smile as well as I throw another splash onto him.

Lathering the soap in my hands, I sink my fingers down to his scalp. His posture stiffens. He clutches his hands together, elbows resting on his knees. I try not to consider what I am doing. I am intensely aware of its intimacy. Combing the soapy strands with my fingernails, his blue eyes drift closed. I shake the suds from my hands brusquely, heart thudding so hard it almost hurts. I fill the bowl once more. His head tilts back as I pour the water over his head, the clean smell of soap drifting up to me. I run my fingers through the waves past the shell of his ear. Leon exhales slowly through his nose as though he's been holding his breath.

I wipe my trembling hands on my apron, taking a step back. Another laugh rumbles from his chest. Leon shakes his head like a dog, a cascade of droplets catching the morning light like a myriad of prisms. I shield myself with my hands and find myself laughing as well. Leon rises, rubbing at his head with the towel. I hadn't realized how close he was until I'm looking up into his face. His fallow stare has feathered away. The smile fades from his mouth but remains in his near iridescent crystalline gaze. He locks my eyes.

The bowl slips from my grasp. It hits the corner of the crate, shattering onto the grass. I kneel down to gather the pieces but only manage to slice the soft pad of skin on my palm below my thumb. Inhaling through my teeth, I jump to my feet.

"That was stupid." I grumble with a wince.

"Here." He wraps a warm hand around mine, pressing the towel to the wound.

His touch is like a flint being struck against my nerves, lighting my senses up like a fuse. I am staring at our conjoined hands. I don't see the hands of an enemy. I see his writer's hands. His hands holding a book. Fingers drifting down the keys of a piano or patting a dog between the ears. Hands against my skin. Alarmingly human and real. The bitter, unforgiving knot in my heart loosens.

This is too much. I tear myself away, my eyes fiercely flickering up to his face.

"Please don't touch me again." I gasp.

I sprint back to the hospital and gather my things to leave for the day.


	9. Carrying a Torch

**Author's Note:**

**mngirl: Haha, personally I'm shipping Ruth/Leon as well... but we'll have to see how things progress. Thank you so much for your unbelievably sweet comment! It meant a lot. Both of those chapters were really fun to write. This one is happier too... just fyi... **

* * *

Joseph Liebgott and I are an explosive combination when there is alcohol involved. It's as though he's the keg of gun powder and I'm the match. I instigate and he detonates with all the words, spit and fire I wish I could spew. The war has left seeds of hatred in both of us but he expresses his more easily. I like to live vicariously through his fury as I brood nearby.

After my morning at the POW camp, I am desperate to gain some ground under my feet. Leon Wagner has ripped the carpet out from under me and I can feel myself spiraling. Anger makes sense to me. What Leon has awoken, I don't recognize anymore.

"Say, Ruthie." Joe tips the neck of the bottle of wine towards me, "You sure you aren't a nice Jewish girl?"

"I'm positive." I reply curtly for what feels like the tenth time that night.

He snorts, admiring me openly before taking a swig from the bottle. He only makes passes at me when he's sauced. Part of me has always enjoyed the attention. But tonight, I can feel my patience waning.

"I still don't like the thought of _our_ girls patching up those Kraut bastards over there." He snorts, "You tell me if any of them gives you any trouble."

My hand itches around the bandage beneath my thumb. I feel a strange pressure there as though my flesh can't forget Leon's fingers wrapped around it.

"Most of them ignore me." I walk away from him at the kitchen table.

"_Most _of them?" Joe snarls, "None of them have tried-"

"Don't be stupid, Joe." I snap a little too quickly.

Tab's gaze cuts up to me from where he stands at the window. Music drifts in from the other room and I hear the door open. Female voices speaking in German drift into the kitchen. Joe is bored with me tonight. But I'm too tired to play our usual game. Without another word, he strides into the sitting room where Lester Hashey, Tony Garcia and Skinny Sisk have brought over some local girls.

"What's wrong with you?" Tab asks as I meander over and lean up against the other side of the window, "You've been strange all evening."

I take another draw from my red wine. The acidic fermentation gives a warmth to my bones. However, it's nothing compared to what I felt with Leon behind the hospital that morning. I peer into my half empty cup.

"I'm tired, I guess. It was a long shift today."

"Ruthie," He wets his lips, "I wanted to make sure you are okay about everything that happened. Between us, I mean."

I bite back a pang of guilt. I had almost forgotten about our kiss. I nod my head before taking another drink.

"I didn't know what to say afterwards." Tab rubs the back of his neck, the space between us strangely quiet contrasted with the chaos in the other room, "When that happened at Haguenau, I could understand why. But the other night. I didn't expect it."

"Me neither." I give a soft grin, "Tab, honestly, I'm not concerned about it."

"Well, I was."

I bury my face in my glass.

"Ruthie. When you do that-"

"Kiss you."

"Yes," He smirks, brushing away an errant flop of russet hair from his forehead, "I wondered, is it because you needed me or just needed someone?"

I tip back the glass and finish it off, numbing the ache of guilt. I am trying not to hear the cocktail of hurt and hope in his tone.

"I mean, I'm not in love with you or anything-" He quickly interjects.

"Oh gee, thanks Tab." I snort, glancing out towards the setting sun.

"Shit. I didn't mean that to sound the way it did." He groans, running his hands over his face, "I've never been good at this kind of talk."

"Then let's not worry about it." I reach out and give his upper arm a light squeeze, desperate to change the subject, "It won't happen again, right?"

Tab levels me with a rare solemnity in his mossy brown eyes. He has never taken any romantic liaison he's had seriously. I know this for a fact. With his boyish charm and a jawline reminiscent of Van Johnson, he doesn't stick around one girl for very long. Our friendship is probably his one constant relationship with the opposite sex. He would never risk it for a meaningless fling, unless those kisses meant more to him than I realized. My stomach lurches.

"What are y'all doing in here?"

I release my breath and turn with a relieved smile towards Florence. She cocks her hip out, holding her glass aloft in one hand and a cigarette in the other. With her hair curled up in her signature chignon, she has all the sass and spunk of Ginger Rodgers.

"Hello Florence." Tab groans.

Florence throws him a counterfeit smile, "Don't get too excited, Floyd dear. I'm only here to fetch me an English speaking lady friend. I'm kind of outnumbered in the other room."

She hooks my arm and leads me away from the stilted silence of the kitchen.

"You saved me." I whisper.

"I thought as much. You looked near about to jump from your skin, darlin'." Florence replies, taking a sip of her drink and throwing a toothy grin in the direction of George Luz as he comes in the door, "What did the boy want anyhow?"

"We were edging in the direction of what felt like an ultimatum."

We sit down on the edge of the couch. Florence takes a puff from her cigarette, blowing the smoke from the side of her mouth and leaning towards the ash tray.

"You know I'm not his biggest fan but I couldn't agree with him more." Florence lifts an eyebrow at me, "One kiss with the boy and you can get away with it. You kiss him twice, especially with the way he's always carried a torch for you-"

"He has not." I interrupt.

"Has so and you know it. He deserves to know where he stands." Florence studies me for a moment, "Who is the other boy?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." I light a cigarette of my own.

"Oh don't give me that." Florence scans the room, "Well, I'm guessing it's not Joe Liebgott."

"I'm not Jewish."

"No, you're not." She puts a finger to her chin thoughtfully, "I don't think it's Frank, though he has to be the most precious little nugget I've seen in the 101st."

I shake my head with a grin. Florence glances back to me, her smile fading. My eyes skitter away from her face towards the balcony where a particularly buxom blonde is wrapping herself around a wide eyed Tony Garcia.

"You're not telling me something." She states succinctly.

I dare a look back, taking a quick drag. Florence leans into the couch, wrapping an arm around the back of it and crossing her legs.

"But I'm patient. I can wait until you're ready."

"Thank you, Florence."

_GI Jive_ with Dorothy Collins' clean, chirpy soprano comes alive in the room. George Luz saunters over from the record player, holding out a hand to Florence. He removes the cigarette from his mouth and beckons her over.

"C'mon, Wilkins. Don't let me down." He coaxes with a wink.

"Catch me before I swoon." Florence comments dryly with a roll of her eyes, but she launches herself to her feet just the same, "You drop me again, Luz, and I swear there will be hell to pay."

I stand as well, brushing the wrinkles from my skirt. I set my empty cup down on the coffee table. I'm bored with pretending to be interested in the evening. I feel Tab's eyes follow me as I walk over to the door and leave for home.


	10. Grendel

**Author's Note:**

**Aubrey1: I am so glad you love Florence. She's loosely based on an old friend of mine who was always a blast to be around. Thank you so much for your sweet comment! You are a doll.**

* * *

Florence leaves the room before I do. She's promised to give me a ride to the hospital but wanted to race down to the town bakery for a strudel. I pace back and forth from the bathroom to the window, gnawing my thumbnail.

Sinking into a chair by the door, I pick up my copy of _Beowulf_ and leaf through it. I haven't looked at it since finding it in a used bookstore in London. It's remained buried at the bottom of my trunk until recently. The familiar words are a comforting distraction.

…_he had dwelt for a time in misery among the banished monsters, Cain's clan, whom the Creator had outlawed and condemned as outcasts._

I smirk. Part of me has always felt empathy towards the monster Grendel. In High School, I had argued with my traditionalist teacher that perhaps he was only misunderstood. Ignored and exiled simply for where he had originated. Perhaps he wasn't as gruesome as he seemed. Maybe if the Danes had given him a chance, things might not have turned out so grotesquely. She stared at me slack jawed before returning to the blackboard without a response.

…_the vicious raids and ravages of Grendel, his long and unrelenting feud, nothing but war…all were endangered; young and old were hunted down…so Grendel waged his lonely war, inflicting constant cruelties on the people, atrocious hurt._

Pausing, I bite my thumbnail again. Perhaps my teacher was right. Grendel was born of monsters, dwelt among them, and thus became one. Whether kindness had been extended to him or not, his personal destiny was inevitable. I glance down at the bandage on my hand. Snapping the book shut, I make my way to the door.

Walking out onto the landing in front of the staircase, I peer down towards the front hall. I hesitate, my hand lightly resting on the railing. They stand alone at an innocent distance from each other. Morning light glows through the half window in the door. The tension between them is thick even from this distance.

Florence holds a paper bag in one hand. Lipton says something in his gentle tone and her head dips forward, a pink tinge blossoming in her face. A blonde strand of hair drifts over her cheek and he reaches out. My heart stops as he curls it behind her ear. Her hand lifts. Their fingers hook and hang midair between them like a bridge that should have been burned months earlier.

My face is cold. I backtrack to the door and shut it firmly enough so it can be heard. They both look up at me as I turn the corner. Their hands swing at their sides and Lipton withdraws a step. I manage a cagey smile.

"Lieutenant." I nod towards him as I descend the stairs.

"Ruth, how are you?" He asks a little too brightly.

"Fine, thank you." I give Florence a pointed stare and her face pales, "I'm going to be late if we don't leave now."

"Of course. Have a good day, Lieutenant." She quips without looking at him.

"Good day." He manages to say before we shut the door behind us.

The first half of the trip is stagnant with silence. Florence shifts the gears, her arm perched on the door with a lipstick smudged cigarette hanging between her fingers. She barely smokes it. I stare ahead.

"You saw us, didn't you?" She breathes.

"Why did you break off your engagement with Tom after Haguenau?"

Florence takes a drag from her cigarette, "I realized I wasn't in love with him."

"Where did that realization come from?" I turn my body towards her, "Did _he_ make you question your commitment to Tom?"

Florence shifts the gears with a grimace.

I sigh, "Florence, I'm sure that whatever this is feels real-"

"There was a moment." She interrupts, taking a quick puff of her cigarette, "_We_ had a moment. In Haguenau. Carwood was sick with pneumonia."

"I remember that." My hands are folded calmly in my lap but my thoughts are racing, "He had a bad fever."

"I persuaded him to take some rest. I helped him back to a bedroom." She flicks the cigarette into the wind, "He was nearly delirious. I propped him up on his pillows and he reached out, touched my face. We would have kissed."

"Did you?"

"No." Florence lets out a slow breath, "Captain Speirs came down the hall at that moment. He didn't see anything thankfully."

"Has anything happened since?"

"That's the first time we have been alone since it happened." She runs her once finely manicured fingernails over her lips thoughtfully, "Honest."

"I believe you. What are you going to do now?"

Florence snorts and runs her forefinger under her eye. I notice a damp run of mascara staining her skin as she returns her hand to the wheel.

"Nothing." She breathes, "Nothing at all."

I swallow hard, "I suppose there isn't anything to be done."

We pull up to the entrance of the bivouac. She jams the jeep into park and whips towards me.

"You know that isn't the real me right?" Her voice chokes, "I feel like I've changed, this war has changed me. I would never do anything like that at home. My mother would be so ashamed of me."

"But we can't give circumstances as an excuse for our actions. We are still responsible for who we are, despite what happens to us." I reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder, "Florence, you and Carwood are good people. Don't let this warp out of control."

She presses her red lips together with a nod. Giving her a small smile, I leave the vehicle and walk towards the MPs guarding the entrance.

I stay busy. A new slew of surrendered soldiers have been hustled into the already packed camps around Zell am See. Allied Officers are nervous about letting any of them leave too soon before they are thoroughly screened. There is always the chance a high ranking Nazi is masquerading in a Private's or Corporal's uniform. The very thought of it shakes me to the bone, as though Grendel himself is hiding amongst the war weary German boys.

It isn't hard to avoid Leon. I dare a peek towards his cot. It's empty and I cannot see if his personal items are still there. I have no idea whether he has disappeared from my life forever or not. I'm not sure which option is worse.

Behind one of the few privacy screens in the hospital, I attend a doctor as he treats a soldier with a bad neck wound. One of the other nurses mentions he is seventeen years old. I am having difficulty detaching at the sight of his silent tears streaking his dirty face. The doctor does his best to remove a piece of shrapnel from the blistering infection. I stick his arm with a morphine syrette. He meets my gaze with a wide eyed pleading glance.

The nurse and doctor bring him to a cot, leaving me to clean up. I am thankful for the moment of solitude to gather myself. I close my eyes and lay a hand flat on my stomach. I breathe deeply, the hot air thick with antiseptic and body odor.

"Ruth?"

My eyes snap open. I turn to see Leon leaning against the rod holding up the screen. I barely acknowledge his presence before busying my hands with the leftover bandages. He has never before sought me out.

"Ruth, I wanted to tell you-"

"You shouldn't be on your feet so much." I interrupt, rolling a bandage.

In the relative quiet of our corner, he approaches me from behind, blocking my escape.

"I need to tell you something." His voice is weak, "About who I am."

"You don't need to tell me anything, Leon."

He reaches out and grasps my bare elbow. His fingers are clammy and trembling. It makes me hesitate. I turn towards him and peer up into his face. There is a damp sheen to his furrowed brow, his blue eyes burning with fever. He wets his dry lips, full mouth parting as though he is trying to mete out his next sentence. However, I am more concerned with his obvious symptoms. I place my hands on his cheeks. His skin is seething. The infection has clearly worsened. My breath catches in my throat at the realization. He lifts a hand and places his fingers over mine, resting into my touch. He sighs slowly, his eyes growing heavy lidded.

"Leon." I say evenly, "Leon, how long have you felt like this? Has anyone seen you?"

"I think I have fallen through the cracks." He gives a faint smile, running his nimble fingers down my wrist.

"You need to get back to your cot now." My voice is strident with worry.

I wrap an arm around his side and lead him to where he has been sleeping. He lays back with a thud, the hinges on the worn cot creaking with his weight. I pull off the boot on his injured leg. Leon is quiet, a hand over his eyes as though the light is too bright for him. I can tell he is edging near delirium. Rolling up his pant leg, I peel back the bandage. It hasn't been changed recently. Veins of spidery blue curl around the seeping wound, white puss coating the torn flesh like a layer of silt. I can only hope it hasn't gone septic. My heart pounding, I lean over him.

"Leon, I'm going to go get some things to make you more comfortable." I say as evenly as I can manage, "I will bring the doctor back as well."

His hand lifts and wraps around the back of my neck. His touch scorches the sensitive skin beneath my hairline.

"I want you to know me." He begs weakly, "Who I am when I'm not here- like this. When I'm not this monstrous-"

"I don't think you're a monster, Leon." I cut him off, taking his hand and placing it to his chest. I feel his quick, heavy pulse through his shirt, "I know- I know you aren't."

Numbly, I realize that what I say is true. He wets his lips again to speak.

"Don't. Save your energy. I will be back in a moment." I instruct before rushing away.


	11. Edelweiss

_It's too loud. Too bright in this hospital. Leon's bones split from the dry heat hissing though his veins. His skin crackles, his insides stewing with infection. He knows he's sick but he has to find her._

_Misting to life from thin air, her face hovers through a haze of light. She stands in front of a yellowed privacy screen, her black hair a shock against its writhing white. Ruth is a refuge of quiet darkness; a safe corner in which to hide. Idly, he wonders what it would be like to lose himself in her olive skin and night sky eyes. The thought ignites a deeper flame in his twisting gut only to be fanned as she approaches him. _

_She lays her palms to his cheeks and for a moment he wonders if he has died. Their coolness cuts him to the quick. He wants to lean into her, crash through the delirium and dive into her softness. Though she doesn't recognize it in herself; he sees it all too well._

_There is no winter in her as he had originally thought. No ice cut rage; spiny and daunting. She is delicate as edelweiss though just as hardy. A tender heart protected by a hedge of thorns against the ravages of war. _

_Those same ravages have left him a coward. An inert, pathetic excuse for a man. She deserves the truth from him. He reaches up towards her as she leans over him like an avenging angel. Leon wishes he could draw her closer and tuck her to his side like the most perfect bandage. _

_Ruth deserves more than to be tonic for his wounds. She drifts away like snow on the wind and he loses consciousness._

* * *

I am pacing the hospital, attempting to complete my duties.

My hands are trembling and I drop a bottle of aspirin. The pills scatter as the glass explodes. The head nurse pauses mid conversation with the doctor and levels me with her poisonous glare. I can almost hear the acid in her voice as she makes a comment with her narrowing eyes focused on me. She's never liked me.

I sweep up the shards. The hair on the back of my neck rises like a cat's as she marches over.

"Toye, come with me."

I bite my lip, resting the broom against a nearby table. She leads me outside into the blinding summer sun. Standing erect, my hands clench at the small of my back. My gaze hovers over her bony shoulder towards the restless MPs at the front gate.

"Toye, I can't help but notice that you have been particularly concerned with a certain prisoner."

"I am just doing my job." I answer curtly.

My jaw tightens. I wonder how she could accuse me of caring too much when her negligence is what led to Leon's condition in the first place. I meet her eyes directly. She takes a step back as though she senses the hostility humming in my gut.

"His fever was out of control this morning." I continue coolly, "I was getting the care and attention a patient needs."

"Don't think I haven't seen your little trysts with the man." She draws closer, a good few inches shorter than me, "You have been seen in his company on multiple occasions without a legitimate reason. Personally, you make me sick. Flirting with a Kraut prisoner, a man who no doubt has the blood of many Americans on his hands. I could report you for fraternizing with the enemy."

"I have done no such thing-"

"He could be the very self-same man who killed my husband!" She hisses, her nostrils flaring.

I blink into her red, haggard countenance and remember my mother's warning about the cancer of bitterness. This woman is living proof of its truth. Despite her aggression, I can't help the pang of pity for her. The knot loosens once more in my breast. The last thing I want is to end up a seething, cold snap of a woman.

At my silence, she sighs and draws back. She runs a skeletal hand over her face. I wonder if she is younger than she looks.

"You will no longer be needed here. I will tell your head nurse at the hospital in town you were a poor fit." She straightens her posture, "If you leave quietly, I won't report you."

Pressing my lips together, I nod and flee past the canvas flap to fetch my things. The hectic frenzy in my heart drowns out everything around me. I stop at Leon's bedside. Without caring anymore, I drop next to his sleeping form. The doctor had apathetically said that his wound was worse but didn't _seem_ septic yet. They said they would monitor him. How Leon has been forgotten over the past few days, I wonder if their words will hold true. If he dies, he'll just be another dead Kraut to them.

I press the back of my hand to his forehead to find that his fever has lessened. The penicillin is working for now. The panicked doubt that he won't get the regular administered amounts needed drives into my mind. I wonder if the head nurse will neglect him on purpose.

My breath catches as his eyes struggle to open. His hand lifts and he grips my wrist.

"You're still here." He groans.

I swallow down the lump in my throat.

"Yes," The corners of my mouth fight upwards, "But I have to leave you now. Leon, if you can, you must tell them what you need – how you feel-"

"I'll be fine, Ruth."

Gently grasping my hand, he brings my palm to his mouth and kisses the center of it. His bloodshot eyes never leave mine. The furious anxiety in my heart quiets as though Leon is the center of the hurricane. My feelings become as acute as an antiseptic on my anger. The knot dissolves. I know I have been in love with him from the beginning. However little I know of him and how brief our encounters have been, I have never felt anything more true.

"Nurse Toye!"

I look up and see the head nurse glaring me down from across the hospital. The other girls I work with are staring. I slowly inhale, turning my attention on Leon one last time. Cupping the side of his flushed face with my hand, I manage a smile.

"You will be fine, Leon."

He closes his eyes. I walk out into the late afternoon.

I manage to hitch a ride. I race through the village towards the clinic where Florence has been working. She is on her break outside, flipping through a copy of _Life _magazine. She doesn't look up at me until I am directly in front of her, blocking the sun from where she sits.

"Ruthie? You're back early." Her mouth draws down in concern, "What's wrong?"

"Do you remember when you asked who my other man was?" I sit down next to her, my heart pounding.

Her brow furrows, reaching across and taking my hand in hers, "Yes."

My eyes skitter away to the porcelain blue lakeside, "I need your help. Please."

"Just say the word, darlin'."

"Can you talk to Carwood for me? I think he'll take it better coming from you." I say the words quickly and meet her gaze.

She doesn't even flinch, "Anything you need."

My face relaxes into a faint smile, "He needs help, desperately. The man."

"Where is he?"

"At the POW camp."

Florence's eyebrows narrow, "Is he a guard?"

"Not exactly."

"Oh my dear Lord, you've gone and gotten yourself in knots over a Kraut." Her mouth drops hard and eyes widen in realization, "Ruthie, are you sure-"

"Florence, please. I'm begging you." I run a hand over my head with a deep breath, "I think he might die."

I drop my face into my hands, pressing my fingertips into my eyebrows. I feel a hand on my shoulder blade.

"I'm on my lunch. Give me a minute, I'll go find Carwood."

Florence has already flounced away by the time I look up. I watch her strut down the sidewalk, hips swinging with determination and hand casting her cigarette to the ground. The young driver of a jeep passing by nearly hits a pedestrian as he throws a jaw dropped double take in her direction. Despite the circumstances, I can't help but chuckle.

* * *

I sit by the open window of our quarters, watching the twilight close in on sunset like a disease. My fingers twitch on the arms of my chair. There is a swift knock at the door. I jump to my feet and nearly leap across the room to answer it. I take a step back from the threshold.

"Hello Ruthie," Floyd rubs the back of his neck, his other hand in his pocket, "Florence sent me to fetch you."

"What-"

"She and Carwood are waiting at the edge of town with a car. It seems they have had to jump through some hoops for your problem."

He meets my eyes pointedly and I know that he has guessed. I wonder how he got involved with this whole mess in the first place but realize it was probably for the best.

"Floyd, I wanted to tell you."

"That was all you had to do." His mouth twitches as he looks past my shoulder, "I would have understood."

My knees grow weak. The guilt is overwhelming as I stare into his crestfallen expression.

"Floyd, please-"

"Come on, we need to go." He urges walking towards the stairs, "We only have a window of time."

We drive through town in dead silence. Pulling up towards the sloping end of the main drag, we see Carwood and Florence with someone in the backseat of their own vehicle. We barely slowly down as Lieutenant Lipton turns on the ignition. We follow them into the night.

"Who is that with them?"

"A DP we know who does a wicked German accent. He's got a change of civilian clothes with him. They're going to have to go to a local hospital and this was the best way to make it look least conspicuous at road blocks." Tab takes a long drag of his cigarette, "Lip wasn't able to get the proper paperwork on such short notice so this is the best we could do."

"I never expected anyone to go through so much trouble." I breathe.

"It's something having friends, isn't it?" Tab replies coolly, jerking the gears as we climb an incline.

I stay silent for the rest of the trip.

As we pull up to the gates of the camp, I sink into my seat. I don't recognize the MPs. I can only pray that the head nurse has left hours ago. I watch Carwood enter the gates. I get out of the car, my agitation overriding my fear of discovery. Without another word to Tab, I run through the dark. Florence is getting out of the passenger side. The sandy haired DP gives me a swift nod and a smile as he hops into the driver's side.

She isn't able to say anything before I have thrown my arms around her neck. I can feel the tears coming, the first I have shed in so many months. After what feels like ages of winter, the thaw in my heart is fast and violent. Florence holds me tightly.

"You'd do it for me." She whispers, kissing my temple before I pull away, "I know you'd do it for me, darlin'."

I rub my face with the heels of my hands, "You don't know what this means."

"Oh I think I do," She leans back studying me, "You really do love this Kraut fella, don't you?"

"I didn't realize it until today." I admit, the words shocking me to the bone, "Yes, I do. I don't know how it happened."

"Doesn't matter how these things happen, the point is they do." Her eyes trails towards the gates, "Speak of the devil."

Lipton has a supporting arm around Leon who is moving so very slowly. I wince when I notice his constricting boots back on his feet. I cannot imagine the pain they must be causing him. His jacket is draped over his shoulders. Under his arm, he carries two books.

Without a thought to how it seems, I meet them halfway. Leon's gaze is fuzzy in the glare of the camp lamps. I wonder if he understands what is happening. As I come into focus for him, I see a dawning realization creep across his face. I have to keep my actions as formal as possible but it is taking all of my will not to wrap my arms around his lanky frame.

"Ruth Toye," He breathes as I come under his arm and help him towards the car, "I thought I was being taken to be shot."

Carwood snorts, lifting an eyebrow in my direction. I meet his eyes, fighting back the tears.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." I choke.

He nods his head forward, his gentle eyes drifting to the ground, "It wasn't a problem."

Carwood helps me get him into the passenger side.

"God speed to you, sir." Lipton shakes Leon's hand.

I am stunned silent at the irony of the scene. Mere months ago, these men would have been duty bound to their countries to kill one another. War is a wondrous monster; the true Grendel in the soul of man.

I grip the top of the jeep door. Leon reaches out and wraps a warm hand around the back of my neck. He leans forward and firmly presses his feverish forehead to mine. The bridges of our noses meet. I close my eyes and exhale slowly.

"Don't worry, Ruthie." He breathes, "I'm not scared anymore."

"I am."

"That's a lie." He chuckles, knotting his fingers deeper into my hair, "I have never known anyone braver."

"Ruth, they only have a short window for when they change the guards at the road block." Florence reminds me.

Leon releases me from his hold but keeps my eyes as they drive away until they disappear in the darkness. Tab, Carwood, Florence and I are silent all the way back to the village. But Florence never lets go of my cold fingers.

I fall into a restless doze somewhere around midnight but am awoken with a jolt by an urgent knocking at the door. Florence answers it. Tab is standing once more on our threshold. He meets my bleary eyed gaze tentatively.

"Something has happened."


	12. Grendel's Mother

Somewhere down the echoing hospital hallway, someone is playing a record. The music rouses me from a light doze. Leon's well-worn copy of _Faust_ rests open on my lap. The midmorning sunlight glares through the large windows against the white sheets and screens of the hall. There are only a few other patients present. It's surprising not to see more beds filled. It'll be some time before I'm used to men not being torn to pieces on a daily basis.

"_Tannhäuser_."

My gaze shoots over to Leon on the bed. His eyes are closed. I wonder if I'm hearing things. I have only caught a couple hours of sleep. It's entirely possible.

"They are playing the overture." I see his mouth move and I know I didn't imagine it, "For the opera; _Tannhäuser_."

I drop down beside him and grasp his hand in mine. His eyelids peel back, his artic blue gaze honed sharp on the watermarked ceiling.

"Leon?" I gasp, clutching his chilled fingers, "Leon, it's me."

"I know." He turns his head ever so slightly, lifting his pointer finger and lightly touching my chin, "Ruth."

"Do you know what happened?"

"Give me a moment." He shuts his eyes and exhales, "I'd like to listen. It's a German opera, you know."

"No, I didn't." I choke out a smile.

"By Wagner." The corner of his mouth tugs upwards, "About love and redemption."

* * *

_**The Previous Evening **_

_There were so many times he could have died. _

_The day the continent was invaded; there were explosions and fire. Debris could have easily caved in his skull and he never would have known what hit him. There was the time during their retreat towards the Rhine, while taking shelter in a derelict bakery, a sniper had nailed the replacement directly behind him as Leon knelt to the floor. Staring at the wide eyed shock on the dead boy's face, Leon knew that the sniper had been aiming for him and had missed. _

_He wondered how he could be their family's survivor and not Paul. Paul was the athlete, almost a foot taller. With arms like tree trunks, a booming voice and a chiseled, stern jaw that drew men to him. He effortlessly eased into the role of a leader. Paul Wagner was the kind of man born for a time such as their own._

_Leon cut away his thoughts from his dead brother. He didn't have the energy to dwell on him for long. Someday he would, just not right then. _

_His silent driver slowed the car as they turned a corner. In the near pitch darkness with only the ghostly lamp of the moon shifting through black summer foliage, there was a car on the side of the road. The door was open and a man was stumbling around the boot. He kicked the wheel savagely, falling back a step._

"_Wait." Leon reached out and laid a hand on the driver's arm, "He could need help."_

_The DP grunted with a shrug but didn't argue. He pulled the car over to the lip of the road. The man shielded his eyes from the glare of the headlights. Leon shed his jacket from his shoulders and opened the passenger side door. With a grimace, he stepped out onto the pavement. He limped towards the man. Pain shot through Leon's calf, his electrified nerves frying his brain. But he kept on walking. The man faltered like he had been hurt. _

"_Do you require assistance?" Leon asked, his voice strained._

"_I require gas." The man tipped back a bottle of liquor._

_Leon studied his sweaty face. His American paratrooper uniform was disheveled and gaze glassy. He was drunk. He gave Leon a swift once over before taking another swig._

"_Hey, you're in a Kraut uniform." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "What the hell are you doing here?"_

"_The war is over, friend." Leon's brow narrowed as the man approached him, "Can we give you a ride?"_

"_Just give me your gas, _friend." _The man sneered, "What the fuck do you need it for anyhow?"_

"_You are in no condition to drive." _

"_Who the hell do you think you are, Kraut? The Führer?"_

_Leon took a step back and held out his hands as the man reached for his pistol. He heard his driver get out of the car and run towards them. Leon swallowed hard._

"_There is no need-"_

"_No, you aren't the Führer." The man gave him a sickly smile, swinging the gun around, "He done shot himself. Too bad for you folks."_

_Leon's hands lifted higher as the man took aim. His mouth went dry. There had been many times he had been faced with death. This time felt different. _

"_Please-"_

"_The only good Kraut is a dead one." _

_The soldier pulled the trigger. __Leon felt the burn of the bullet. He fell hard and cracked his head on the pavement. The lights went out fast._

* * *

My hands are trembling. I clutch them tighter in my lap. I can feel Tab's worried gaze stab back and forth from me to the road. His arm is around the back of the seat. He grasps my shoulder.

"Ruth, are you okay?"

"Fine."

"They said he might pull through. The next few hours are critical."

Critical. Crucial. Urgent. My thoughts are conjuring synonyms in an attempt to maintain clarity. Otherwise, I'd fall apart. My heart has been pounding since I heard the news. I didn't know Chuck Grant very well but every time we met, I had been impressed by his easy going nature and positivity. The boys of Easy Company are out hunting down his assailant like a dog. Unbeknownst to them, it's the same brute who shot Leon.

Leon had been found alive on the road along with Grant. Cut through the torso with a bullet. The injury to his head was what worried the doctors seeing to him, according to Tab. The DP who had been driving him was killed. As was a British officer who stopped soon after the first shots were fired.

I imagine Grendel slinking in the shadows, waging his lonely war, razor claws and fangs slick with new blood. Peace is a word eternally foreign to the diseased hearts of some men.

My thoughts shudder to a halt as George Luz races towards our car from one of the buildings. He is breathless as we pull up.

"They got 'em." He gasps with a gulp, "They got the bastard. Just brought him in a minute ago."

"Where?" Tab leans across me towards him, his tone deadly low.

"Back in the parlor area." Luz puffs at his cigarette, "Got the bastard. He was forcing himself on a poor Austrian girl. Any news on Grant yet?"

"Not sure. He's in surgery-"

I tear open the door and push past Luz.

"Ruth?" Tab calls, jumping from the driver's side as I stride into the building.

The hate that had almost dissipated has resurfaced with a vengeance. It has a new target for its venom and aggression feels as natural as breathing this time.

They are already roughing him up in the room when I enter. I barely register the faces of my brother's fellow men in arms. Boys I know all too well, whom I have helped tend the wounds of and drank with as friends. Their countenances seethe with barely contained rage. Joe Liebgott lays a heavy left hook into the man's belly and he doubles over with a gasp. They don't even register my presence until I am standing directly in front of the man.

"Ruthie?" Joe wipes his nose with his sleeve.

The man lifts his head, his pinched face twisting in pain. He gives me a bloody smirk.

"Come to join the party, sweetheart?"

I am all raw fists and teeth. Sweat and his blood slicking my hands. Salt on my tongue. I screech like an animal, like Grendel's mother. I tear out a clump of hair, my nails digging into his hairline on his forehead until I draw blood. I want to scalp him. I knee him in the groin and Joe grabs me by my torso.

He and Tab drag me through the crowd of stunned men. I struggle against them until we emerge into the warm summer night. I collapse into Joe who sets me aright.

"I didn't even know she was close to Chuck." Joe states towards Tab with wide dark eyes.

Gathering me in his arms, Tab carries me to the car.

"I'll explain later." He calls over his shoulder as he sets me into the passenger side, "Look at me, Ruthie."

My hands are strangely still. My heart rate slows. Tab takes a handkerchief from my coat pocket and dabs some water from a canteen on it. The blood he wipes from my forehead and hands isn't mine.

"I'm taking you home." He sighs, "I never should have brought you out. Just should have waited till morning."

"No," I grasp his forearm, meeting his eyes, "Please, Floyd. I need to see him."

"Ruthie-"

"Please." I whisper past the ache in my throat.

Tab drops his head. Running a hand through his hair, he shuts the passenger side door firmly. He gets into the jeep and we continue towards the civilian hospital where Leon and Grant were brought.

* * *

**Author's Note: Phew, ok... not going to lie... I'm glad to be over this chapter.**

**Haha I'm so sorry y'all for the cliffhanger last chapter! Since this is another non-linear storyline, its sometimes difficult to figure out where to break up chapters. I'm still wondering if I should have continued with this one but we'll see how it flows when I get out Chapter 13. I love you guys, for real. Your reviews mean so much. And I'm so glad y'all have adopted Leon. I'm kind of in love with him too.**

**Also, on a random side note, I found an article about a real life American nurse who fell in love with a German POW during the war. Though they met while he was detained in America, I was stoked to read it. I highly recommend checking it out. **

** cityroom. blogs. nytimes / ****2013/05/15/a-black-nurse-a-german-soldier-and-an-unlikely-wwii-romance/?smid=fb-share&amp;_r=0**

**just put the .com behind the nytimes and the http in front... i wish we could do links up on here!**


	13. A Question of Choice

_January 3__rd__, 1945_

_Brother,_

_I hope this letter finds you safe in the New Year. The last you wrote, your location was somewhat precarious. Mother hasn't written to tell me one way or the other about your condition so I must assume you are alive._

_Leon, I am at a loss. If I must watch another Dutch mother begging for food for her half-dead child, I may go mad. When this began, we were the heroes. Where did the evil start? Was it always there or did it creep in like the night? I remember when I first joined and was sent to the front, I tried to explain away the Gestapo's hunt for those of undesirable blood. We were protecting the Fatherland. But I cannot look away anymore. I cannot stand and do nothing. It won't be long now till the end. I am sure of it. But still, all we wreak is pain and anguish on those around us. We are no heroes. I doubt we could ever have called ourselves that._

_All I can do is hope to see you and mother and Wilhelm soon. Though part of me wonders if I deserve such a blessing. I have been an aid to deprive so many others of their loved ones. I seek no absolution for what I have done. I cannot forgive myself, how could somebody else? If this letter should fall into the wrong hands then so be it. We are all dead men walking anyway. _

_Paul_

* * *

"Do you remember when- when I said-" Leon's teeth are chattering, "I told you about my brother."

His fever flared up with a vengeance around midnight. The penicillin isn't working anymore. The doctor has spoken to me and they are to amputate his leg in an hour. He doesn't know yet. I assured the physician I would tell him. I still haven't managed to gain the courage.

"Yes. Your older brother." I push back the hair from his damp forehead.

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple sharp against the skin on his neck, "I lied."

"What do you mean?"

"He wasn't killed in action."

I kneel at his bedside, holding his hand in both of mine. My grip grows tighter. There is something in his eyes that makes me wary of where the conversation is leading.

"How did he die?"

"There was a plot by the Dutch resistance." His eyes grew as cold as they were the first time I saw him, "There was an incident on a road where an SS General was shot and injured. In retaliation, they massacred of all the men in the nearby village and many other prisoners of the Gestapo. Hundreds."

The back of his hand is pressed into my breastbone. I know he can feel my heart thudding through my shirt. This isn't the first time I have heard of the merciless slaughter of innocent people by the German Army. And I fear it won't be the last.

"The soldiers lined them up and shot them like animals. But my brother and one other soldier-" Leon lets out a shaky breath, "My brother did not do as he was ordered. He laid down his weapon and joined the men on the other side. He was executed by his own men. I only learned of it because one of them wrote to tell me."

I breathe in hard through my nose and lift a hand, running my trembling fingers through his hair. Leon's eyes drift close.

"You were right." I whisper, "He was very brave."

I hear the clock strike two o'clock. They will be here to take him into surgery in only a few minutes.

"Why did you lie, Leon?" My hand pauses at the crown of his head, "Why did you tell me he had been killed in action."

"I was ashamed."

"Of him?"

"Of myself." His gentle voice ripples across the silence between us, "Of my own cowardice."

"Leon-"

"Just hear me- please-" A violent shiver cracks down his spine, "Please, Ruth. I only ask that you listen."

"I'm listening, Leon."

"I was eighteen when I came to the front in '42. Holland, I saw the trains for the first time. I heard of the camps. I turned away. I had no direct hand in the business. I felt I was exempt from what I knew to be wrong. By '43 before the invasion, in France, I assisted in herding them into cattle cars in Marseilles. I stood by the car doors with my gun as though hobbling old women and scared children were a threat. I knew it then." Leon breathes deeply, his eyes open, "Their blood was on my hands from the beginning. To stand back, to say nothing in the face of evil, to watch without action-"

"You were acting on orders-"

"Orders?!" His voice rises to a feverish pitch as he turns towards me almost violently, "Orders."

He runs his hands over his face. I rise on weak knees and sit down on the chair. My mind reels.

"One of the other men kicked a woman who had fallen. She was a cripple. Her child was trying to help her up. The woman looked up at me and I just stared. I did nothing. I stood and stared."

Rocking forward, I rest my head in my hands.

"They ripped her to her feet with her toddler and threw her in. They shut the doors and the train left. And I stood there. I did nothing."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask soggily, rubbing at my damp cheeks, "I cannot give you absolution."

"I'm not asking for it." He exhales, "You had to know. I couldn't keep this from you. You had to know who I was."

"But you were so young, you still are, Leon."

"Some of them were as well. Younger still, men and women and children on trains heading for camps. We knew they wouldn't be coming back. I knew."

I stand, bracing my hands on the small of my back. I pace towards the window.

"Perhaps it would have been better for me had I died on that road." He chokes.

I find I cannot answer him. The surgeon appears from behind the screen. I turn towards him, my arms crossed over my middle and shoulders hunched. The doctor draws his glasses down on his bulbous nose and peers at me.

"Have you told him yet?"

"No."

Leon quakes, "She didn't have to, I guessed as much."

Two nurses come around with a gurney and heave him up onto it. I stand by the screen, my eyes flitting anywhere but his face. Leon reaches out and grasps my arm. I cannot bear to not look into his eyes. He is bittersweet; a perfumed poison. I wonder if I will ever recover from this man.

"Will you stay after?" He asks, running a thumb over my wrist, "For the butcher's bill?"

I jerk my head forward. He releases me and they wheel him away. I leave the hospital and catch a ride back to the village.

* * *

It is almost ten in the morning when I wake. My eyelids feel like sandpaper as I blink away the sleep. My dreams have been murky, as though I have been swimming through the disturbed silt of a stagnant pond. I trudge into the living room to find Florence standing by the window.

"I received a letter this morning."

I pause. Her voice is strident, as though she is trying to hold back tears. I sink into a kitchen chair.

"My father has fallen ill. They do not believe he will survive the week." She turns towards me, her hand fluttering up to her shirt collar to straighten it.

"Florence-" I step towards her.

"No, please, Ruthie. I can't right now-"

I don't allow her to finish the sentence. I wrap my arms around her and she lets go. I brush smooth the curls on the back of her head as she cries. She pulls away, her eye makeup smudging onto her pale cheek bones.

"I am being sent home as soon as possible."

"Good." I nod firmly, gripping her shoulder, "This is good."

"If he dies, that will leave the family business to me. My mother cannot handle it all on her own." Florence runs a hand over her face, "I will be running the ranch."

She paces towards the kitchen table. She rests against it, crossing her arms over her chest. I light a cigarette for her and bring it over.

"_And_ the railway line." She snorts as I come up beside her.

I give a weak smile, my eyes on my bare feet, "I can't imagine any person more up to the task."

Florence takes a drag, her breath softening, "I suppose we'll have to wait and see."

"When do you leave?"

"Noon."

"I will bring you to your transport."

She hands me the cigarette and I draw in a breath of smoke.

"Will you tell Carwood?"

A smile twinges on the corner of her red lips but doesn't bloom. Florence's gaze swings from the floor to the window. There was a storm gathering earlier but it has dissipated without a drop.

"No. I don't feel its necessary."

I nod, unsure of her answer. I wonder after my own heart, if I should have left Leon as I did without a word. Perhaps both Florence and I are better off never knowing. It's safer that way.

"What happened with your German friend?"

I exhale audibly through my nose and return the cigarette to her.

"He was being brought into surgery. They had to take his leg."

"That sounds familiar."

"Before he left, he told me…" I swallow and pace a few steps forward, "He told me some things that happened. During the war."

I cross my arms tightly across my chest and meet her direct stare, her eyes puffy from weeping.

"You know," She speaks slowly, "There are none of us coming out of this clean."

"This is different."

"I gathered that. But Ruthie, we have to find a way to move past it. Rise above what we have seen or done. We need to help one another do it."

"I don't believe I can help him."

I wonder if I want to either. What he has told me has shaken me to the core. I have tasted hatred towards other human beings but it was nothing compared to the behemoth wrought by the Nazis. Looking at him as he was wheeled away, all I could see was the cold deadness that invaded his stare at times. I had thought it was weariness from the carnage we have all experienced. Now I shudder to think its roots are much darker. I wonder if such things should be moved past, there is such a danger of them being forgotten.

I meet her eyes once more.

"We all have our choices to make. Don't we?" Florence replies.

She blows out a cloud of smoke and stumps the cigarette into an empty coffee cup on the table behind her.


	14. The Simplest of Answers

Florence reaches across and closes my car door. She shakes her head with a weak smile. Despite the fury of grief in her heart, her make up is flawless. Her honeyed curls are tucked into a demure bun on the back of her head. Only the bone dry weariness in her dark brown gaze gives any clue as to her inner turmoil.

"I can bring myself the rest of the way." She insists.

"Your trunk should be delivered home by next week." I shrug, unsure of my feelings.

I am glad that she is returning home, heartsick for the sorrow that no doubt awaits her and a little befuddled as to my own wellbeing without her. It's strange to think that I once thought her not worth getting to know. Now I can't imagine life without my dear friend.

She leans forward and embraces me. I fight off a wave of tears. With a slow breath, I open my eyes and peer across the street. Through the bustle of the main drag, I spot a familiar figure. Carwood Lipton stands on the edge of the sidewalk, gawkily clutching his hat as he watches us. His mouth parts as though he is going to call out. However, he merely straightens his cap back onto his head, smoothing down his jacket with his palms. He walks away. She releases me from her hold, gripping my arms and biting her lip. Florence doesn't know Carwood was so close. I decide not to tell her.

"I'll write you as soon as I reach England." She promises, dragging her suitcase from the back seat.

My stomach lurches as she gets out of the jeep.

"Florence," I say with a tell-tale crack in my voice, "Your friendship… I don't think anything has meant…"

I wet my lips, struggling against the pain in my throat. Everything I want to say sounds so trite. Reflecting on all we have experienced, words feel inadequate. She raises a hand, stepping back. She lets loose one of her true smiles.

"I'm not dead, darlin'." She chuckles, "I'm just going home."

I snort, my eyes drifting to the steering wheel.

"And you'll be visiting me in Tennessee when this is all over, y' hear?" She lifts an eyebrow, "I'll be seeing you, Ruthie."

"I'll be seeing you." I meet her gaze once more with a half-smile.

Florence gives me a swift salute with a wink before striding towards the station. She breezes past a couple British servicemen, one of whom lets out a low whistle.

"Nice try, Limey." She drones before disappearing into the depot.

By the time I return to Zell am See, my stomach is clenching with hunger. I realize I haven't eaten since the previous afternoon. After returning the vehicle, I march down the street.

My thoughts have been consumed with Leon since dropping off Florence. I had told him I would be waiting. I wish I had been honest. The memory of his confession has left a stain on my memory, warping how I have seen him from the beginning. I wish I had never told him my name that first day. I wish I had ignored him and wrapped up his leg. Left that day with Tab and never spoken with him again. I wish I had never met Leon Wagner.

Gathering myself at the door of the small bakery, I enter the warm, doughy air of the establishment. There is a small line leading up to the counter. I take my place behind three others ahead of me. I know the lunch rush should be arriving anytime.

The door opens once more, sunlight spilling across the tiled floor. I peek over my shoulder and see a young black serviceman removing his hat. He looks to be around 19 years old. He nods to me with a half-smile and I return the favor, thankful for a little friendliness from a stranger. It's a pleasant distraction from the bee's nest in my brain.

"Got here just in time, I see." He comments, rubbing his head as he takes his place in line behind me.

"Looks to be that way." I reply, lifting my brows, "Transportation corps?"

He nods, "Been here since last summer."

"Red Ball Express?"

"Sure thing, Miss." He lifts his head with a wink, "How long you been here?"

"We arrived a couple days after D-Day."

He makes a low hum in his throat as a few other servicemen enter the Bakery, "I'm Leon Gardner."

I almost scoff at the irony but manage to keep my face straight as I hold out a hand, "Ruth Toye."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Toye." He shakes my hand, "Where you from?"

"Pennsylvania-"

Our conversation is cut short as an American paratrooper punches the back of Leon Gardner's shoulder, shoving him forward. He catches himself before stumbling into me.

"Shit, I can't believe they let _you people_ in here." The man snarls, chewing on the end of a cigar, "Get to the back of the line, boy."

Leon Gardner turns as though he is about to say something but the man's friend comes up alongside him. They are both bigger than him. It would be a massacre if things came to blows.

"Git on wit' yah," The other man snaps, "You heard him."

My mouth goes dry as Leon Gardner peers over at me. My mouth parts as I stare at him. I do nothing. He lets out a slow breath before trudging to the back of the line with his fists clenched. I feel sick. The instigator blows a cloud of smoke in my face, his thin mouth is more like a paper cut than lips.

"Sorry 'bout the unpleasantness, sweet cheeks." He grins.

I face forward as I come up to the counter. Studying the ruddy, impatient countenance of the Austrian baker, I realize that I have done nothing in the face of evil. I have watched blind hatred weave its sticky strands around another innocent person's neck and done nothing. I am no better than the men pushing Leon Gardner to the back to the line. No different from Leon Wagner with one less leg in a lonely hospital bed.

"Well?" The baker demands, "What will it be?"

I blink, "Just a moment."

I lift up a hand and peer back to the end of the line. By sheer chance, I manage to catch Leon Gardner's attention. I wave him up wordlessly with lifted eyebrows. He smirks quizzically before walking towards me. I push him ahead.

"He was in front of me." I lie to the baker, "It's his turn."

I hear the men behind me grumble and shift with annoyance. I keep my back straight and gaze directly ahead. They may be inbred troglodytes but I'm confident they won't pick a fight with a woman. Leon makes his order and leaves without another word to the men. I do the same. As I pass by them, the one with the cigar spits onto the floor in front of my shoes.

"Betraying her own kind." I hear him snarl as I continue towards the door, "Bitch makes me wanna puke."

I almost snap that I hope he chokes on his lunch. However, I wonder how much that will help. Returning hatred for hatred, no matter how deserving the subject, it only feeds the monster. I tear a bite out of my croissant and find Leon Gardner waiting on the sidewalk.

"You didn't have to do that," He chides, "I could have handled it later."

"I know." I answer with a nod, "But then where would that leave my conscience?"

Leon Gardner chuckles lightly, "I'm from California. I'm not used to that kind of thing happening very often."

"That's how half of our country lives amazingly."

We meander down the street, eating silently as the trucks and jeeps blur past us.

"You know what I can't understand." Leon Gardner blurts out, "How our own country can turn a blind eye to its own evil simply because we won the war."

"What do you mean?"

"I was there after our troops found one of those camps…" His voice trails off, "Dachau, they called it. I have never seen anything so horrible. Every single American present was changed that day. I don't think any of us will ever recover from what we witnessed."

I hesitate, biting my lip. I'm unsure if I should answer with that I think.

"But you can't help wondering how some of those same American servicemen can go home to their states where people are murdered simply because of their skin color. And how their local governments can turn a blind eye to it." I say with a grimace, "Over and over again."

We stop at the lakeside, the water gently shushing against the shoreline.

"I just-" Leon kicks at a stone, "I don't want to seem like I am detracting from what I saw at Dachau. From what those survivors experienced."

"You aren't." I state simply, crumpling up the piece of Austrian newspaper my croissant was wrapped in, "Evil is evil, no matter where you stand in this world."

"And it is everywhere, that's for sure."

My stomach sinks, "It makes you feel very small, doesn't it? It's a helpless feeling. How you do even begin to react against such hate?"

Leon Gardner lets out a rolling laugh, leaning over and picking up a flat rock, "Now that's the easy part."

"How?" I reply, narrowing my brows.

He throws the rock and it skips across the surface of Lake Zell.

"Love."

I blink. My gaze shoots towards the late afternoon sun on the red gold horizon.

"It's the only thing in the world stronger than hate. The only thing that can bring true peace, even to the most twisted soul." He winks at me, "I thought that would have been an obvious answer, Ruth Toye."

"I need to go." I say, my eyes straight ahead, "I need… there is a friend. I should be there."

Leon Gardner smiles, "Then you should get on."

"It was nice to meet you," I reach out and pull him into a half hug, surprising him with my action, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He laughs, studying me curiously.

I race back through town. Mentally checking off my options, I am desperate to find a ride to the civilian hospital. I can only hope I'm not too late.

"Ruth!" Tab calls from the other side of the street, jarring me from my thoughts.

He trots towards me. He's in his PT gear with a baseball glove tucked under his arm. Hair flopped across his forehead, he brushes it back as he reaches me. I stare at him, surprised to see him willing to be so friendly despite how I have treated him. He give me a half smile.

"How are you?" He asks awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I'm fair." My eyes skitter to the ground, "How is Chuck Grant?"

"It'll be a tough road for him." He nods, "But the doctor says he'll make it. Hows…"

"Leon Wagner?"

"Yes."

"He had to have his leg amputated last night." I explain with a heavy exhale, "Tab, I wanted to talk you. We didn't have a chance yesterday-"

"Ruthie," He grins, looking away swiftly, "No apology is necessary."

"But I shouldn't have treated you like that. My behavior with you has been inexcusable-"

"I'm not excusing your behavior." He sighs, "I'm merely forgiving you. Those things aren't mutually exclusive."

I bite back a surprising barrage of tears. I kick the sand and cross my arms over my chest, frustrated with myself beyond reckoning.

"What's wrong?" He reaches out and lays a hand on my arm.

I blow a stray strand of dark hair from my face and meet his eyes. The words pour from me, details about the previous evening, what Leon confessed to me, my afternoon at the bakery. Tab listens politely and patiently. After I am done, he doesn't respond. He merely sizes me up with a sigh.

"C'mon." He starts off down the sidewalk.

I blink after him before catching up.

"What are you doing?" I ask breathlessly.

"Getting you to the hospital."

Tab manages to scrounge up a vehicle for us by sunset. I am on edge of my seat nearly the entire trip, my knee bouncing with anticipation.

"You sitting like that isn't going to get us there any faster, y'know." Tab comments dryly, sounding more like himself with me again.

We reach the civilian hospital by sunset. Running into the ward where Leon had been last, I raced toward his bed, hemmed in by two screens. I turn the corner and find it empty. My heart drops to my stomach. I collapse onto the chair where I had sat the night earlier.

"They came and got him already."

A nurse approaches, stopping beside Tab. She peers up from her clipboard and studies me for a moment.

"You wouldn't happen to be Ruth Toye?"

"Yes." I breathe,"Came and got him? What do you-"

"He's alive." She sighs, "But it was a difficult surgery. We nearly lost him. He's being transported back into Germany as we speak."

My mouth is dry, "How was he when he left?"

"Weak. The surgeon says the next 24 hours will decide what happens."

"And they insisted on taking him?"

"We can't argue with Allied military." She smirks towards Tab, "Especially over a Nazi POW."

I cringe at the label, "How did you know who I was?"

Her white blonde curls drift over her shoulder as she digs into her apron pocket. I notice Tab observing her admiringly and it almost draws a smile from me. She tugs out a book.

"He wanted you to have this."

My hand takes it from her automatically, my wrist limp. I run my fingers over the leather cover.

"_Faust_." Tab reads over my shoulder.

I open the cover and find two letters tucked behind the title page. I examine one and find it is the letter from his brother back in Holland. It is in German. The other is in English and it's from Leon to me. I open the envelope. It's his address with a short note.

_Please see that these are returned to my mother. If I die, I should like her to know Paul understood what she had tried to tell him for so long. Please don't feel guilty for not being here, Ruth. I knew you wouldn't be. I wish you nothing but happiness and long life. I took "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" with me. I couldn't bear to let go of all of you._

_Leon Wagner _


	15. Christmas '45

**Christmas 1945**

**Germany, British Occupied Zone**

"_Here's where you're off, mate."_

_The German soldier exits the vehicle. Dragging a pair of crutches from the backseat, he gives a curt smile to the British truck driver._

"_Thank you."_

"_Give my love to your mum!" He grins, one of his front teeth missing._

_The German pats the door as the engine revs and bumps away down the road. He stands on one leg in a cloud of exhaust. The frigid air swirls with frost. Tucking the crutches under his arms, he makes his way into the village. Violet veins touched with silver race along the scant bare sky to the west, beckoning twilight above the spiny tree tops. In the faint light of the street lamps, he pauses by the village's town hall. The wall facing the street is covered in papers. Photos of men, woman; all missing. Dog-eared and crinkled, yellowing from months of sun, he searches them until one nearly strikes him to the ground._

_Reaching out with gloves rife with holes, he peels his likeness from the cacophony of faces. It was the last picture of him taken before he had left for the front in '42. He was in his uniform with his expression unsure; eyes narrowed and mouth half downturned. He never was good at smiling in photos._

_Leon Wagner folds it into his coat pocket and continues down the Main Street. Every store front, every town house, as familiar as a book from childhood. He could have been blinded and still made it home without any assistance. Some of the buildings are shells. The town isn't very big but still not exempt from the ravages of war. After all he has witnessed in his home country, he's numb with surprise to see that the village wasn't burned to the ground. _

_He stops hard. The front half of the building has caved in and its innards picked clean from looting. Part of word 'Bank' is etched into the stone that remains above the former front door. _

"_Hey you."_

_Leon pivots towards two British soldiers patrolling the town, their mouths glowing with cigarettes. The truck driver, whom he had rode with since Hamburg, had given him the first smoke he's had in months. He still tastes the smoke curling gloriously on the back of his tongue. Leon's eyes skitter to the ground._

"_Papers?" _

_They are aloof and cool, nothing like the American GIs to the south. The truck driver's jovial nature had been a complete shock to Leon. He'd even told him his name; Charlie Dunham from Canning Town, London. _

"_Here." Leon grunts after situating his crutches to dig out the wrinkled pages._

_One of them holds up a flashlight and studies them intently. He waves the light over Leon's face. He squints into the glare. Satisfied, the soldier hands them back to him without another word._

"_Welcome home." He smirks before they both set out down the street._

_Leon lets out his breath, scanning the sky overhead. The snow is letting up, but the cold is deadly. He's lived in the area long enough to know when a bad winter is shaping up. He continues through the near silent town, too scared to hope for what he will find at home._

* * *

**Christmas 1945**

**USA, Pennsylvania**

My mind has wandered. The tune of _Jingle Bells_ draws me to the present as the newsreel rolls.

"_All over the nation, bright and shining presents can be seen packed into shop windows for all the family. American youngsters are on their best behavior as they wait in line to sit on the knee of good ol' Saint Nick." _

I blink at the black and white screen. A blonde boy in a peacoat presses his nose against a window, watching the line of children move closer to the department store Santa Claus. The scene cuts away to a narrated montage of toys popular this year. It's the usual fare; dolls, hobby horses, train sets.

"My nephew is itching for one of those." Ned Maguire, Joe's friend from high school, whispers as he pulls his arm around my shoulders.

Distracted by his touch, I only catch the words 'war relief' on the title card for the next segment. Involuntarily, I flinch farther away from Ned. He doesn't notice. A Priest surrounded by a group of children bearing canned goods speaks about the misery around our war torn world. His words don't make a dent to the teenagers in front of us who are throwing popcorn at each other.

"Pipe down, will yah!" Joe whispers harshly, drawing forward.

One swivels to say something in retaliation but bites his lip at my brother's deadly glare. The kids turn and eat their snacks in silence. I smirk and shake my head in Joe's direction. With a snarl still on his mouth, he winks at me before settling back in his seat and situating his arm around his date.

"…_to strengthen the wasted and worn bodies of other children throughout the world who are suffering and starving. We hope to bestow goodwill through this charity to the suffering people, wherever they may dwell this Christmas season. During this week, every Catholic parish in the United States will be a receiving station for canned goods_…"

I wonder if any cans from our family's parish, St. Mary's, will make it to Europe. Perhaps Germany, the northwestern corner where the British are in control. I have the address memorized, the place on the map circled in my old Atlas from high school.

The movie starts. I have been anticipating it all day, even if it means enduring a running commentary from Ned Macguire hot in my ear. It's a colorized musical; _State Fair_. It rings of everything for which our boys fought and died.

As the first musical number begins, I shift uncomfortably in my seat. A busy family of four in a quaint pastoral landscape prepare to attend the fair. The parents aren't worn beyond their years or grief stricken. The daughter is well-kept with silk stockings and a pouty red mouth. Her mother chides her for moping. The son is healthy, his eyes are alive and he has all his limbs. I file through my thoughts and try to think of a family that appears this whole. Perhaps that's why they make movies like these nowadays; so we can learn to pretend to be this happy again.

"Excuse me," I whisper, peeling Ned's arm off my shoulders, "I need to go to the Ladies room."

He props his elbow on the seat back, smacking his gum as he admires the actress, "Sure thing, honey."

I wince at the pet name. I have only been on three dates with him. I don't know why I am on this fourth one. Joe throws me a concerned glance that I brush away as I trudge up the aisle.

The main female lead sings her first song. She is restless with life, unsure of the next step. Sitting at her window, she stares longingly into the distance. I hesitate at the exit. Resting my hand on the door frame, I peek back at her bright, perfect face. The song strikes a nerve. It's only a movie, but I understand her intimately in that second.

"_I keep wishing I were somewhere else, walking down a strange new street. Hearing words that I have never heard, from a man I've yet to meet_."

I can see it in my mind's eye as though it's what is playing onscreen. A strange street, rubble ridden and chilled by years of war, with a man who is missing a leg below the knee. Haggard and care worn with the sharpest of blue eyes, he pivots towards me. The scene fades. I've envisioned it a thousand times.

For the remainder of the movie, I am too distracted to follow the storyline. It's a blur of vibrant color and cheerful show tunes, not a uniform in sight.

"Ruth. Ruth." Joe leans across the table and snaps his fingers in my face, "Ruthie, hello!"

I jolt, my gaze snapping up to him from my egg cream. I have been swirling the streaks of chocolate syrup into the soda with my red striped straw. Again, my thoughts have drifted far away from the drug store where Ned, Joe, his date Mary and I sit. Mary giggles lightly, resting a freckled cheek on the heel of her hand. I manage a grin.

"Where have you been? You've been dreamy all evening." Ned comments, picking up his hamburger with one hand.

He has his arm once again around the back of my seat. I wish he wouldn't act so possessively. We aren't even going steady. Though I know our mothers would be thrilled for that to take place. Two nice, Irish catholic kids always make plenty of babies for the eager grandparents.

"Spring fever, even though it isn't spring." I reply dryly, quoting the song from the movie.

The other two chuckle. I look across at Joe who is studying me with narrowed dark eyes. I shirk away from his gaze. He knows me too well. I don't feel like explaining myself tonight.

"So Ruthie," Mary chirps, using my nickname even though she has only just met me, "Joe tells me you were a nurse over in Europe. That must have been so exciting!"

"Exciting is certainly the word for it." I lift my eyebrows as I take a sip from my straw.

"Were you close to any action?"

"A couple times."

"Were you ever scared?"

The kind of fear in the heat of combat where there is a real danger of losing your own life; no. The kind that pierces you to the core because you will never forget the face of a teenager from Idaho bleeding out on a stained stretcher; yes. But I know I can't say this with Christmas carols playing on the radio and the druggist hanging holly along the window frames. So I shrug.

"Sometimes but I knew I was safe." I bite my lip.

"Did any of the boys you nursed ask you the marry them?" She grins.

I sense Ned's posture stiffen as he tears a bite from his burger. I shake my head.

"But you're such a pretty girl! _None_ of the soldiers tried to romance you even _once_?"

I scoff and take a long drink of my soda. I shove away the image of him leaning against the canvas wall in the summer sun with his shirt buttons loose at the neck, studying me like he knew my soul at first glance. I swallow and fashion a smile.

"Thank you. We were awfully busy."

"Oh I should have thought it would have been terribly romantic." Mary twirls a strand of red hair around her pointer finger with a sigh, "I would've joined up but my Pa forbid it."

Mine did too but I did it anyway. I don't say this either.

Outside the drug store, Ned says he'll call me later that week. I nod and attempt a smile. He kisses me on the cheek after giving me a light hug. Tugging his toboggan over his jet black curls, he tucks his hands in his coat pockets and trots towards his father's Chevy. After we drop off Mary, I stay in the back seat. Biting my thumbnail, I count the Christmas trees visible from front windows as we drive through town. It snowed yesterday and it's beginning to look like the season.

"Ruthie, talk." Joe commands from the front, peering at me in the rear view mirror.

"Hmm?" I break away from my thoughts and meet his gaze.

"You have been loopy all night. Actually it's been going on a lot longer."

"You aren't a social butterfly either, why are you criticizing me?"

"I'm not criticizing," Joe sighs, turning the corner sharply in our family car, "I'm concerned."

His troubled tone pricks at my heart. I realize once again how much I had missed him. It's happened many times since I got home in October.

"You don't have to be, I'm fine."

"The hell you are." He growls, shaking his head.

"Oh? And you're Mr. Happy?"

"I'm doing pretty well actually," He chuckles, "Do you like Mary?"

"She's nice."

"You'd don't."

"Not really."

"Well, it's not like I'm going to marry the girl."

"Then why date her?"

"Why are you with Ned? You planning on getting hitched anytime soon? Should I mark my calendar for a June wedding?"

I shift in my seat, crossing my arms tightly across my chest, "It's been difficult to acclimate. I'm doing the best I can. Honest, Joe."

Joe pulls into our driveway. Mom has left the lights on in the front room. The prickly silhouette of our own tree is dark against the glass pane. He switches off the engine with a sigh.

"I know you are, Ruthie." He swivels around but keeps his eyes on the passenger side window, "You are doing a good job. I know Mom and Pop are proud of you. I am too."

"I'm proud of you too, Joe." I grin as he glances over with a shake of his head.

"C'mon, mom mentioned something about helping decorate around the house tonight."

He gets out of the car. I hand him his crutch from the back seat floor before he shuts the door. I remain immersed in the silence of the empty cab. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply. I dare to conjure Leon Wagner's face from my memory once more. I am thankful for the copy of Faust and the letters he left behind. Without them, he'd be even more spectral. I have been sleeping awake since he left. Nothing seems real. And he is the most dreamlike of all. That is why I haven't been able to mail the book and letter to his mother yet. Without them, it would be as though he had never existed. The man haunts me and I don't even know if he's dead.

I step out of the car and try not to slip on the black ice slicking our front walk.


	16. Summer '46

**Author's Note: Thank y'all for your unbelievably wonderful comments. I'm not going to lie, for a fun-writing fanfiction, this mess has been difficult to write. I didn't realize when I started this story how sticky the subject matter was bound to get but I feel like I can't write this story unless it is addressed head on. That's mostly why the past couple chapters Ruth has been chilling in the USA while I work things out for Leon. But don't worry! It's all going to change! I promise! Yall are wonderful, I hope this chapter is satisfactory!**

* * *

**July 1946  
USA, Tennessee**

Closing my eyes, I prop my bare feet against the wooden railing and lean back in the rocking chair. There is a rhythmic chorus of insects whirring in the trees. Their evening song echoes across the open yard. The heat is a comfort, humidity wrapping itself like a blanket around me. I could almost fall asleep.

The screen door creaks. I open one eye to see Florence emerging with a bottle of chilled beer in each hand. She lets it slam shut on its own and the screen bounces noisily before settling into the frame. Her gaze scans the field in front of her family's country home. A few of the cattle graze in the far corner of the fencing, one laying down with a calf cuddled into its side.

"You've thrived here." I comment as she meanders towards me.

"It's in my blood, I suppose." She sits down in the chair next to me and holds out a beer, "Was bound to happen sooner or later."

"You just never expected sooner?"

I tip back the bottle, the condensation on the glass slipping between my fingers. Florence props her boot up on her knee, smoothing out the denim on her pant leg like it was silk and not soiled, work slacks. She lights a cigarette and sinks into the seat, blowing a cloud into the thick, summer air.

"My father was getting on in years when I left." She calmly states, "When I first got back, I couldn't believe he was actually gone."

I nod, "Did you get the chance to say goodbye?"

"He was the one who brought me to the train in Memphis before I left for the front." Florence gives me a brief smile, "That was our goodbye."

I press my lips together and exhale through my nose, "How is your mother?"

Florence snorts, "Fit as a fiddle, though not according to her. She's always complained of one ailment or another. That woman will outlive me, I swear. She's healthy as a horse."

"Will I meet her?"

"Do you _want _to meet her?" Florence takes a swig from her bottle, "Yes, I suppose I should swing you by the town house while you're here. She stays there mainly, always has. It was just me and dad out here most of the time while I was growing up."

"I'd prefer it out here as well." I lay my head back and close my eyes again, "Do you ever get lonely?"

"No, I don't get a chance to be honest. The ranch and the rail line keep me pretty busy."

"You certainly are a wonder, Florence Wilkins."

"How's your brother?"

"Doing very well, started work again. Nothing keeps that man down."

"I'm not surprised. You hear from anyone these days? From back then?"

She speaks like it's been more than just a year since we were all in Austria. I know who she means to ask after but I don't know if I want to go there yet.

"Tab is back in Indiana, he's doing fairly well. I got one letter from him around Christmas. I think he might have buried some of his wounds from war deep down." I take another drink, "They are only coming to the surface now."

"Poor Tab."

"Never thought I'd hear those words from you."

"He ended up impressing me. How well he dealt with… you know…" Florence takes another drag and peers over at me, "Everything that happened at the end there."

I stand restlessly, the neck of the bottle held lightly between my fingers. I approach the porch railing and lean my back against the nearest post. I catch the flash of a snake falling from one of the willows by the pond in the field. It leaves a curly-queue ripple on the stagnant surface of the water. I take another drink.

"Have you ever tried to contact-"

"No." I cut her off, my eyes falling to the dusty wooden boards under my feet.

"So I'm assuming he hasn't as well."

"He wouldn't know where to start, if he's even alive." I answer with a shrug, "Besides, have you seen the newsreels? Things are really bad over there. He's probably too preoccupied trying to make sure his loved ones are fed."

"He left without a word?"

This is the first I have spoken with anyone about Leon Wagner since arriving home nearly a year ago. It's like prying open rusty hinges in my gut. I swallow hard and peer over at her. Florence sets her boot on the ground and leans forward onto her knees. Her blonde French braid tumbles over a slim shoulder as she narrows her eyes on me. She waits. I sigh.

"He asked me to send his mother a book and a letter home, in case he didn't make it."

"Did you?"

"Can I tell you something kind of crazy?" I give her a half grin, "Sending it by mail feels so insubstantial to what I felt for him. Whether he's alive or not, I feel the need to give it to her… myself."

I lift an eyebrow. Florence purses her lips with an even nod of her head.

"You mean go to Germany." She blows smoke out the side of her mouth, her gaze returning to the far horizon, "That's a hell of a trip."

"I know."

"Especially now."

"I know."

"When do you leave?"

I snort, "Whenever I get enough money saved. It may take some time but I have been making a good living at the factory."

"You going alone?"

"Looks that way."

"No. You're not." Florence stands and marches towards the railing, "And you'll be going a lot sooner than that if you wish it."

I scoff and shake my head, "What on earth- Florence Wilkins-"

"Don't argue with me on this." She smirks, "Just say yes."

"I can't let you."

"Too bad because it's happening whether you like it or not." Florence lifts her bottle towards mine and clinks them together, "I've got more money than I know what to do with. I can't sit here and listen to you talk about when you'll have enough scrounged up. On top of that, it might be trickier getting into that cesspool than you think. We have some family friends in DC that might come in handy. You know I'm right. Don't get prideful, just accept it."

I bite my lip. Florence lifts an eyebrow, but I don't argue.

* * *

**July 1946  
Germany**

_The doctor had come and gone. There was nothing to be done. Just wait. _

_Leon pats his mother on the shoulder after the physician leaves. Sitting in watchful silence, her bright blue gaze drifts up from the old woman on the thread bare sheets. In the faint light of the single lamp on the bureau, the somber lines of Frau Wagner's once beautiful countenance are dimly visible. Her mouth down turned, she sighs and stands._

"_You go sleep." He lifts an arm towards the door, "I'll stay up with her. If anything changes, I'll come fetch you."_

_She grasps him by the shoulder and wordlessly leaves the room. Like everywhere else in the house, the walls have been stripped bare. Most of their possessions have been bartered away, except for the bare necessities. Though it isn't as prominent as in the big cities, there is a thriving black market in their little village with the occupying soldiers. Trades for cigarettes, extra rations, chocolate; anything really is available. For a price. _

_Leon's stomach lurches with hunger. He retrieves the book on the bedside table. Leafing through the worn pages, he pauses at chapter twenty two._

"_Read to me, _liebchen_."_

_Leon glances up. He hadn't realized she was awake. Her eyes are closed but loosely, relaxed. The doctor had given her something before he had left to make her more comfortable. He was thankful to see it working. He clears his throat._

"From that time on, the world was hers for the reading_." He quotes slowly and clearly, "_She would never be lonely again, never miss the lack of intimate friends. Books became her friends and there was one for every mood_."_

"_Who was the young lady?"_

_Leon stares at the page. He wets his bottom lip._

"_The one whose name is on the inside cover?" She persists._

_He had forgotten Ruth had inscribed her name into it. He had kept the novel to himself until Hannah had become bedridden. He had started reading aloud to her in the evenings and would leave it by the bed after she drifted off. She must have gotten curious one day and picked it up._

"_Is she Jewish?"_

_Leon glances up with a half-smile. Hannah's eyes are open, the same midnight shade as Ruth's. She studies him as she used to when he was a little boy._

"_With a name like Ruth, it made me wonder." She explains, turning her snowy head towards him._

"_I don't believe so." He shuts the book, running a worn thumb down the spine, "She is an American."_

"_Ah, an American girl." Hannah says quietly, "They are a diverse lot. What is she like?"_

"_Dark." Leon leans back in the chair, "Dark hair, dark eyes. Quiet at first, at least you think she is in how she moves. But then she looks at you and-" He chuckles, running a hand through his hair, "I sound ridiculous."_

"_Tell me more, please."_

_He meets her eyes with a heavy breath. _

"_You know, my friend from school, Albrietcht Huber, he was in the Luftwaffe. He told me about when a hole was punched into the side of their aircraft and sucked out the gunner. The pull was so strong, he was certain he was going to be dragged out into the empty sky by the draft. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. Deafening and all consuming."_

"_When you saw this Ruth then…"_

"_I felt like I was being pulled out into nothingness. Everything I was, all I had done-" He swallowed hard, "Everything muted. I was at peace."_

"_Love will do that you know." She smirks knowingly, "I should know. I've loved enough in this life of mine." _

_Leon shakes his head, lowering his gaze to his hands._

"_You do not think it was love?" Hannah coaxes gently._

"_I wonder if I am capable of it anymore."_

"_Why is that, Leon?"_

_He can feel the ache in his throat grow at the thought. He knows he can never tell her what happened during the war. Not Hannah Stahl, his nanny since birth. The woman who had scolded him for making messes and cleaned his cuts. Wiped his tears when Paul would exclude him from games with the older boys. The woman who had taught him to read before he had even started school. She had praised every piece he had ever written. The woman who had loved him even in the uniform that was an affront to her existence. The Jewish woman who, along with her grandson Elya, were the sole survivors of their family. _

_Leon ran a hand over his face and breathed deeply._

"_Come here."_

_He peers up. She is holding out her spindly arms towards him, the mottled skin on her hands as supple as velvet. Without hesitation, he allows her to press his face into her shoulder as she used to when he was a child._

"Liebchen_, dear boy." She says quietly which ushers a flood of tears from Leon, "I forgive you."_

_He sniffs and pulls away, dragging his sleeve under his nose, "You don't know, Hannah. You don't know what it is I have done. I don't deserve it."_

"_No, I suppose you don't deserve it." She answers gently, "But you need it desperately."_

"_It cannot be that simple."_

"_Sometimes it is, my boy."_

_Leon rises on his one leg and grasps one crutch under his arm. He maneuvers towards the half open window. Night steeps the courtyard below, insects humming in the last of the summer foliage in the trees. He rests his elbow against the pane._

"_I shouldn't move past it. How can I?"_

"_You won't move past it and perhaps it's best you don't. These things should never be forgotten." Her brittle voice fills the room like a white light, "But you can grow from it, let the ashes fall away and learn to live with it. All of you must now. It's the only thing left. You must for your mother, brother, my little Elya. You must."_

_He pivots towards her once more and she smiles before closing her eyes._

"_Don't let your heart grow dead from self-hatred. Hating yourself is as destructive as hating someone else." She lifts her branchlike hand and beckons him over, "Now come and read to me. I am feeling tired."_


	17. Christmas '46

**Author's Note: Alright, there will be an epilogue and this will be it. Thank y'all for the comments once again! I am so sorry I haven't been able to respond. Usually by the time I post these chapters, I am wiped out and needing to get to sleep in case my daughter wakes up teething. Here's hoping I'll actually get sleep tonight! Love y'all! **

* * *

**Christmas 1946  
Germany, British Occupied Zone**

I'm dropped off at the crossroads in the middle of a steady snowfall. The walk to the town is brief, wind tunneling along the lane hemmed by looming trees. All the leaves are long gone. I come to a stop in the near empty street. The rubble has been cleared away and gutted buildings boarded up against the specter of winter.

Even nearly two years out, echoes of war haunted the derelict stores and threadbare faces of the natives. America was rife with the trauma of those violent years as well, we merely pretended the elephant wasn't in the room. I hitched my knapsack higher on my shoulder and edged down the sidewalk, keeping to the curb. My gaze shifts to the ground as I feel the eyes of an older woman on me as she passes. She whispers to the young girl at her side and they scurry down a nearby alleyway.

The people here are haggard, thin and suspicious. However, there is no hostility in their grey countenances. Just shadows of exhaustion. Nothing like my father had prophesized, angry at us for returning to the scene of the crime. My mother hadn't taken the news well. She had managed to get both of us home only to have us leave once more.

But Joe had insisted on traveling with us.

"_Who is Leon?"_

_I hesitated before entering my room. He was standing on his remaining leg by the open window. The letter was fluttering in his fingers with the light summer breeze. _

"_What are you doing?" I breathed, letting the suitcase from my Tennessee trip drop to the hardwood floor._

_Joe leveled me with a glare, "The other one is in German."_

"_I know." I swallowed hard, a creeping heat humming at the back of my neck. _

"_Ruth, what happened in Austria?" He held the letter with tense fingers._

_I held my breath, my eyes zoned in on his hands. I was terrified he'd crumple up the paper or tear it in two. With a sigh, I settled onto the edge of my neatly made bed._

"_What do you think happened?"_

_Joe snorted in disbelief. He sat hard into the desk chair and studied the letter._

"_Is he dead?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Why did you keep these things? He asked you to send them."_

"_I know, I'm getting them to his mother." I rub my hands together, "Actually, I was going to tell mom and pop about it tonight."_

"_You aren't planning on mailing them to her, are you?" He shakes his head with a heavy exhalation, "Is he worth it?"_

"_Yes." I breathe._

"_Are you going alone?"_

"_Florence is coming as well."_

"_Two women in war torn Germany. That sounds genius." He grabs a crutch propped up on the desk nearby, "The only way mom and pop will take this is if I go too."_

_My gaze shoots up to him from his feet. The hard lines around his mouth soften and he shrugs._

A man steps into the doorway of a bakery. The front window that no doubt once displayed baguettes, croissants and loaves of bread now only contains empty baskets. My finger twirls nervously around the end of one of my braids. I have gathered my hair into two. I look like Dorothy from _The Wizard of Oz_. I feel just as lost.

Despite my trepidation, I pause anyway.

"Excuse me- _Entschuldigen Sie_…" I bite my lip as he narrows his sickly green eyes on me, "Frau Wagner?"

His shifts his weight from the doorframe, blowing out a column of smoke as he tosses his cigarette butt to the snowy cobblestones. He gestures with a sharp nod down the street, not taking his eyes from me.

"To the end of the street. Then left."

"Thank you." I mumble, trying to ignore the feel of his stare on my back.

It was stupid of me to leave by myself like I did. But I felt like this was something I had to do alone.

_I tugged the heavy red flannel shirt over my bare shoulders. In my slacks and boots, for a moment I felt like we were still at war. The utilitarian style of the past few years had been easy to adopt after days of rough travel through Europe. However, Florence had insisted on her red lipstick. _

_I paused in the Spartan parlor of our hotel rooms. The night before, I had left Florence and Joe talking over a bottle of schnapps. When I had awoke a few minutes before five, I found Florence had not come to bed. _

_Florence had fallen asleep on Joe's chest on the sun stained chaise longue by the broad windows. Joe had an arm over his eyes, his other hand resting between her shoulder blades. Florence's long white arm was draped down across his torso, a cigarette smoldering dangerously between her fingers. Quietly, I tip toed towards them and stumped the smoke into a nearby ash tray._

_Tucking a short note onto the table next to them, I picked up my knapsack and ventured out into the city streets of Hamburg._

I stop in the middle of the street in front of a multistory town house. It occupies the entire corner with a large fenced yard, covered in snow. I can see through the rod iron-gate that the front brick walk has been shoveled. The gables of the home arch upwards in an alpine style, the walls cream and trimming cranberry.

He seems so very real here. My breath comes fast as I envision him as a child on the single swing, reading books in the shade, riding a bike into the street where I now stand. I try to imagine what he could have been had our youth not been stolen by power crazed, murderous men. I stir from my thoughts, my brain sparking with memory. I can see his face as clearly as though it was only yesterday and not over a year since I last saw Leon.

Swinging my knapsack around, I unhook it open and tug out the book. Paul's letter is tucked into the cover. My feet are glued to the pavement. From here, I am anonymous. I don't have to explain to a bereaved mother why her second son is dead. From here, Leon could be alive. I can still hope. Perhaps not knowing is the best thing.

I open the gate, it swings away with ease. Edging up the steps, I lay the book by the double doors. I straighten and take a step back, eyeing the iron front knocker. It isn't too late. I pivot away.

The gate clangs shut. I gape numbly through the snowfall. His trench coat is open and I can see his left pant leg pinned up at the knee. He uses one crutch like my brother. His face is thinner, giving prominence to his cheek bones. He could use a haircut. I step out onto the brick walk, my eyes not leaving his face. He stares at me as though he is in a dream. Leon blinks, his mouth parts and brow furrows. He lets out a heavy breath that turns to mist in the frenzied air. His potent stare has not lost its gravity.

"Hello." I say quietly, stopping an arm's length from him.

He doesn't speak, just continues to look at me. His eyes sweeps the length of me. For a moment, I am embarrassed by my rough appearance. Between my braids and flannel, I certainly do look like a coal miner's daughter. After getting a clearer idea of how he grew up, I feel shabby.

"I didn't know if anyone was home-" I begin but pause, biting my lip, "No, no that's not it. I was scared to knock."

I receive only silence and the chilled arctic blue of his gaze. I swing my open bag around once more and dig into it.

"I know things are hard over here right now so I didn't come empty handed." I babble nervously, pulling out a can of beets, "I thought your family could use these, I have quite a few more here as well. It was heavy to bring but I didn't mind…"

Leon moves forward till he is standing directly in front of me. Peering down into my face, he lets the crutch fall into the snow. With his hands free, he braces his cold palms against my neck. As he leans forward, he rests his nose against my forehead. My eyes close. I grip his wrists.

"So," He finally whispers, lacy ice melting at where our brows touch, "You've come to me."

"I hope that's okay." I can't think of anything else to say, my thoughts short circuiting.

"I was trying to find a way to come to you as soon as things settled down." He scoffs lightly.

He breathes in sharply through his nose; eyes drifting shut and fingers tangling up into my hair.

"My stranger in a strange land," He breathes, his mouth an inch from mine, "My Ruth."


	18. Epilogue: Stranger in a Strange Land

**Germany, British Occupied Zone  
January 1947**

The chill from outside permeates the halls of the municipal building. Removing my mittens, I keep my hands in my pockets. I finger a slip of paper, waiting for a British Tommy to stop and check my traveling permit. Despite the number of people I see drifting along the corridors, its deadly quiet. The occupying British forces are hungry too.

The second winter after the peace is proving to be more difficult than the previous one.

I'm vaguely aware of how the rest of the zones were doing. Germany has been cut up like a pie and the pieces divvied out to the victorious Allies. The saying went that the Soviets got the food, the French got the wine, the Americans the scenery and the British got the ruins. The more I read about the ordeal, the more I see the roots of another power play taking hold in Europe. This time, the key figures are the Russians and Americans. It seems a game but is actually only barely restrained blood lust of the powers-at-be.

I sniff, shifting on the bench. A mother and child wrapped in raggedy coats stop at the door across from me. The little girl has to be five years old but her emaciated face makes her seem younger. I think of little Elya back home. He's ten but looks seven or eight. He's a slender boy to begin with but the aftermath of the war was taken its toll on him. Leon slips him his own share of dinner at times, complaining that he isn't feeling well enough to finish it. It's the only way Elya will take it from him. Even for a child, his staunch sense of pride is unrelenting.

I am restless. I stand and make my way out the wide front doors into the city. Hamburg is a frozen shell. The people shuffle about in their threadbare layers, British soldiers longing for home with hollow eyes watch them numbly on street corners.

My gaze is drawn to the other side of the street. An old man, hunched over and grasping his fists to his chest, is hobbling down the sidewalk. He lets out a racking cough that sounds as though it will split him in two and topples over. I make a move to cross towards him but he is swiftly surrounded by a group of concerned citizens. A couple soldiers watch nearby unfazed. They have been ordered to maintain a strict non-fraternization policy and follow it to the letter. They couldn't approach to help even if they wanted.

"What happened?"

I pivot toward the stairs to see Leon gazing across the street. He makes his way down to the sidewalk on two crutches. Tipping his iron grey, trilby hat to the side, his eyes swing over to me. I purse my lips and shrug.

"Was it another one?" He guesses coming up alongside me.

I nod wordlessly. Since being in Hamburg for the day, we have seen multiple people dropping in the streets from starvation or cold. Or both. He gives me a swift kiss on the temple before I pull my toboggan over my braids. We make our way towards the lorry stop.

The snow starts to fall again. It has been relentless since I arrived in Germany over a month ago. These short weeks have felt like a lifetime. I rest my back against his chest where we stand on the corner, focusing on the rise and fall of each breath.

"Don't worry, we'll be home soon."

His breath is warm in my ear. I close my eyes. There have been times I have wondered if staying behind was the right thing to do. I wonder if taking on the physically and morally starved ruins of this country is worth it. Leon subtly brushes his nose across the side of my neck and I cannot think of anywhere else I'd rather be.

* * *

_Ruth is ripe. Like the trees in the courtyard that bear apples in the autumn. She is golden. Leon wonders at how quickly such a deadly winter has fled both from his country and from the woman he loves. In June, the new currency brought life to veins of their world. _

_It's been a month since the economy has slowly begun to reanimate. Three since Ruth told him the news. She didn't have to say a word. He had guessed it. _

_Picking up the pitcher, he pours it over the back of her head. The frothy trails of soap snake down to the back porch and onto the grass. Leon wrings the water from her dark hair before folding the towel around her shoulder over the strands. Ruth stands, her dress loose. It's hard for him to look at her sometimes. She had lost so much weight since arriving in December. He is thankful that their diet has been steadily improving. _

_She lifts her delicate arms over her head and runs the towel over her hair. There is the beginning of a tell-tale slope between her hip bones and the end of her ribs. Leon reaches out and lays a hand flat to her abdomen. _

"_If it's a boy," She comments with a grin, "He'll be Paul."_

_Leon swallows the tick in his throat, "Yes. That would be good. And a girl?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_How about Frances?"_

"_Frances?" She furrows her brow, "For whom?"_

"_For _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." _He scoffs, "I should think that you would have known."_

"_For a character in a book?"_

"_Stranger things have happened."_

"_This is true." _

_Ruth laughs lightly and lays her hand over his contemplatively, both of their gazes resting on the future._


End file.
